


Flower Children

by Somedrunkpirate



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Backstory, Bi!Gaby Teller, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Childhood, Childhood Memories, Childhood loss, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Found family themes, Happy Ending, Hurt Napoleon, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, Non-Graphic Violence, POV Alternating, Panic Attacks, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Queer in the 60's, Slow Burn, UNCLE headquarters, Violence, World War II, queer friendships, references to domestic abuse, supportive friendships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-03-24 19:35:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 82,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13817994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedrunkpirate/pseuds/Somedrunkpirate
Summary: In which Napoleon is born to be an artist, becomes a thief, and gets his heart stolen. Where Illya is taught to dance and kill before he learns to be a person. And in which Gaby spends her childhood trying to understand a father she loses the second she finds him again.All in all, things start to get better, after Berlin.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there again, missed yall <3

It starts with a hidden hatch. A secret underneath the floorboards. Gaby must have walked across it thousands of times, her feet unseeing as she traversed the ground.

Or it starts with a rainy day. Her usual escape to the lake hampered by a quiet storm, Gaby is forced to seek refuge in the attic. Away from the noise in the kitchen, her mother always busy with cooking or cleaning while the radio drones on and on. It starts when Gaby peruses through the old boxes, giggling at baby pictures and treasuring that lost dress Mama had put away. It’s too small now, and besides, she’s grown out of that frivolous pinkish style. At nine Gaby already discovered the benefits of a good pair of jeans, like the ones boys wear. They’re good for working in the woods, catching frogs or digging holes, never having to worry about scraped knees.

Gaby puts the dress away, throws it in one of the boxes without a care and continues her search for something interesting. There might not be any creatures here, save for the occasional moth or mouse, but that doesn’t mean the attic has no potential for something great. She finds it then, when she huffs and puffs, pushing a big box to the side. A hatch in the floorboards. The potential she’d been looking for. Her arms quake under the strain but soon she’s able to pull it open, falling on her bottom when the hatch gives. A cloud of dust blows in her face. Gaby quickly waves it away and grins when she realises what she has found.

Inside the small space a steel blue chest fits, covered in a thick layer of dust. Gaby takes it out, coughing and laughing, because in all her years between the trees, she’s never found real treasure; it’s been in her own house all along.

But then Mama calls from downstairs, and Gaby has to hurry, barely remembering to close the hatch behind her. She drags the heavy chest down the ladder and hides it in her room. In the last sliver of light the lock shimmers, and while the majority of her mind realises how hungry a day of treasure hunting has made her, there is a little piece rushing with other thoughts. Because there is a chest under her bed. A lock that needs a key. A secret to discover, and Gaby knows exactly where Mama hides her secrets– the key must be there.

After dinner there are the dishes, and after dishes there is a book to be read, and after the book mother goes downstairs to drink wine and smoke one single cigarette. Gaby waits until the radio is tuned up louder again, until gentle German fills the living room, seeping underneath Gaby’s door. When her mother listens to music, it’s as if the rest of the world disappears around her, and Gaby knows how to use it to her advantage. The coast is clear.

She sneaks into her mother’s bedroom, carefully avoiding the creaking floorboards as she tiptoes through the hallway. Mama never locks her door– even though Gaby hasn’t had a nightmare for years now.

Gaby finds the little jewellery box right where she knew it would be, hidden under the large bed. Mama would notice if she took it with her, so she carefully opens it and quickly silences the little dancer that tries to play a lullaby. Gaby can’t see the contents well in the dark, but she knows what a key feels like, so she pokes around with her fingers until she feels it cold in her palm. She puts the box back and shuffles out of the room, keeping a wary eye on the stairs. But the music is still playing by the time Gaby is back in her own room, so she has succeeded in her mission.

Gaby flicks on her reading light with a thudding heart, and places both the key and the treasure chest on her desk. Normally, she would’ve waited for the morning for important discoveries like these, but the excitement is too large to contain during sleep. She wouldn’t be able to. So Gaby makes a quick wish before pushing the key into the lock and turning it – _click_. The latch gives easily. Gaby has to press her hand to her mouth to suppress an excited sound pushing out of her chest. She takes a few deep breaths until she’s calmed down a little, and opens the chest before her. Her eyes slowly adjust to the light, and she feels her heart pound louder and louder as she takes in what she has found.

The books aren’t books like she knows from school, or even like the old ones from the library. They are thinner and smaller, their covers dark and flexible, and there must be a dozen of them in the chest, but none have a title or a name of the author. Gaby picks up the first and opens it eagerly, holding the paper up into the light. It’s then that her grin falls of her face, because she might not remember much, only a little through the stories Mama tells her sometimes, but Gaby knows her father’s name, and there, on the very first page is written in long cursive ink. _Property of Johan Hermann Teller. Please return immediately if found. For the protection of our Nation, and the safety of our children._

\---

Napoleon realises he’s born to be an artist visiting an historic art museum for the first time in his life. A real museum, not those boring ones they go to for class. An actual important museum with ancient art lining all the walls. It takes one hour exactly before Napoleon knows he belongs here.

His father had taken the family on a trip to Amsterdam, and although Napoleon isn’t supposed to know why, Napoleon does. It is too easy sometimes; to linger beside the right door, read the right letters, listen to the conversations between adults with their vague statements and tense expressions, heedless of Napoleon hanging on every word. Because Napoleon is a child. Napoleon knows he is a child, and he knows adults think children have nothing more than candy between their ears. According to these adults, children can’t use their eyes or ears to understand what people are saying around them. They forget that a child can stare into nothing, seemingly lost in yet another fantasy, but still hear the words of business that stream out of their mouths. Maybe it’s because adults forget that they’ve been children too, once, ages ago. Maybe they miss the days where they didn’t have to listen. Napoleon doesn’t understand; he wants to listen to everything. What goes on in his father’s office is worlds more interesting than the things they learn at school.

Though, Napoleon must acknowledge that most children are not like this. His classmates are boring, slow, zombie-like creatures– easy to instruct or scare away. He can lead a revolution on the playground with the right lies, badger them in all kinds of pranks with only a smile. It’s always amusing to see a teacher’s face pale when another of his plans come to a success. And even more, Napoleon is the only child in class who can convince the cooks to make a cake for him, even though it’s never his birthday when he asks. Maybe the adults have a point when they think children can’t listen to what they’re not supposed to understand. Maybe Napoleon is different, and they just haven’t realised yet. He doesn’t plan on telling anyone.

So Napoleon knows why they’re suddenly on vacation in this strange old land. Napoleon knows that his father has a job with the government, where they talk a lot about deals and money and ‘strained relationships’. And Napoleon knows sometimes things go almost wrong and his father has to pack his bag and go fix the situation with stern looks and long lectures. This is also the way father solves the problems at home.

It’s a slight surprise that this time, father took them with him, but as Napoleon finally realises his purpose in life, he finds he doesn’t mind. He lets go of his mother’s hand - she doesn’t even notice - and walks up to the painting, so large he almost can’t see the edge of it. The soldiers in the painting are dressed with grace and dignity, though the scene is less organised than it could have been. People are scattered everywhere; spears stick out of the fray; a dog runs through their legs, and a small girl in the middle of all of it glows golden as if she knows everything in the world. The scene is dark, brown around the edges, but where there is light it shines brightly, showing the faces in detail. It all makes for some kind of sloppy perfection. The painter must have worked so hard, poured everything he was into making it, all the while never knowing if he would succeed. And now here it is to be watched by millions of strangers, people from all over the world centuries after it was made.

Napoleon imagines it, the painter standing in this hall, seeing his creation be worshiped. Napoleon wants that too. He wants to make something so beautiful that the whole world will know his name. Napoleon wants to create that beauty with his own hands, make it his and let it be loved. He can do anything he wants to do; he’s different. So Napoleon knows, that one day, his painting will end up right here, for the world to see.

\---

Illya taps his feet along the ground, careful not to make too much noise, but he can’t help but move a little to the melody; the Master’s old hands sliding over the piano like magic. He’s got the best spot to watch, and knows exactly how to lean forward to see the Master’s face. The Master does not smile, but the girls know how to read the lines between the wrinkles. They know when he’s happy, or disappointed, or frustrated, or more. Illya is still learning. The important part starts, the notes harsh and heavy through the circular room, and Illya clenches his fist around the bench he’s sitting on. The rules are clear; he’s allowed to watch, but he can’t be in the way, he can’t make a sound, he can only use his eyes and appreciate the dance.

The new girl steps into the centre of the room. Illya knows she’s new because he’s never seen her before, and he’s here every Sunday morning. He knows all the girls by name. Sasha is standing to the side with her arms crossed, inspecting the new girl’s position with an eagle eye. The girl twists into a twirl, and Illya suppresses a sigh. Her leg isn’t bend enough, out of balance, and she misses the beat. He flickers his gaze from Sasha to the Master and flinches at the distaste in their eyes, the downturn of their lips. Their company is the best in Moscow, so the stakes are high, but sometimes Illya wishes they could be a little nicer to the new girls. This new girl won’t be back.

After she leaves, Sasha takes her place, her chin high in the air. _I show you how it’s done,_ she doesn’t say. She’s too proper to say things like that. She doesn’t need to. She tenses for a second, takes a calm breath, and then turns, twists, twirls. The perfection streams out of her as she goes round, one, two, three times, before bowing with her arms arched and her toes straight. The other girls launch into a polite applause and Illya claps too - he can’t not, not when it was so pretty and precise.

Sasha’s sharp eyes latch on to him and Illya stops at once, blushing. He hurries to sit back against the wall, pretending he doesn’t exist. But then Sasha’s red lips twitch, her face transforms into something softer than before, and says, “Ilyusha, you know when it’s done well, don’t you? You know the grace we’re trying to perfect.”

Illya nods quickly, and then brushes away the hair that fell into his eyes. “Yes, Miss.”

Sasha steps toward him, and even when she’s not dancing, everything is calculated, everything is controlled. Illya wishes he could do that too. “Why do you know?”

Illya swallows, he doesn’t know if his answer is the right one, but refusing to answer the principle ballerina might be even worse. “I watch.”

Sasha smiles, triumphant. “He watches.” She turns around to glare at the new girl. Illya wants to feel sorry for her, but this is the first time Sasha has ever spoken to him, so he’s too busy feeling awed. “You hear that? The boy watches, and he understands. The boy watches because he wants to learn. If a little boy knows why we do this better than you, you have to learn how to watch.”

The silence that falls is cutting, and the new girl almost starts to cry. Sasha doesn’t let her, because if there is one thing she hates more than mistakes, it’s tears.

“Now go,” she snaps. The girl flinches away and hurries to the door, but Sasha shakes her head. “No, go sit with Ilyusha. Watch. Maybe he’ll teach you something.”

The girl’s eyes widen, and she looks at Illya with something that might be fear. Illya smiles at her, trying to tell her that it’s okay, that watching is not the worst thing in the world. Of course, the idea of doing it himself, learning how to be as perfect as Sasha, is as unimaginably wonderful as the books his mother read to him once. But watching is like a birthday gift, a surprise every time, and the new girl needs to think like that, if she wants to ever dance again. Illya will try to teach her that, it’s the best thing he knows.

Sasha clucks her tongue, and the sharp sound brings the room in action. The Master taps his stick on the ground and starts to play again, the new girl trembles as she sits down on the bench, eyes cast down, and the company start their exercises on the barre, arms outstretched.

Illya carefully, silently, slides towards the girl, her sobs are quiet and hidden, which is good.

“It’s beautiful, you know,” Illya whispers to her, because it’s important she knows this. He looks out on the dance floor. The sun streams through the windows, everything turns bright. The girls raise themselves on pointe, as light as air. Illya smiles.

“I’m going to be like them some day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonjour tout le monde! It's been a while, hope y'all still remember me ;) Here is a little thing that I have been fighting with for the past few months. I both love it and detest it for being such a challenging write. I have two small (almost finished) chapters following this one up, and then another few not yet existent chapters finishing the story. I tried to get myself to finish it before posting, but the more I have to study, the more it's hard to focus on being creative every once in a while, and that's never good for daily happiness. So I hope this will help me be able to get back a little time to write and have fun, instead of only french french french. 
> 
> I hope you liked this little chapter! I wish I can promise you when this will be done, but it's a weird time rn. Do let me know if you want the second chapter asap, or if you want me to hold off until the third one and maybe the fourth ones are done!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for references to both domestic and child abuse. In short: Illya's dad is not nice. I don't think it's very graphic, but take care <3 
> 
> The wip was proofread by the amazing scribeofarda and peskyheathen, and beta'd by brookebond. Thank you so much!

Another afternoon finds Gaby in the library. If anyone asks, she’s working on a school project.

No one asks.

The hours tick by as Gaby adds a few new books to her collection, paging through them with a pencil between her teeth. There is just this one equation she hasn’t been able to comprehend, and neither the old math school books or the physics book she found had anything resembling it. Gaby checks her notes, murmuring under her breath. It might be something her father invented, which would be greatly unhelpful. She’d have to go through all of the notebooks again to see if there is anything referencing this, some kind of trail of thoughts that would lead to something logical. Or maybe she just transcribed it wrong and she’s breaking her head over her sloppy handwriting. Which is very possible.

Gaby groans and pushes everything to the side of the table, placing her forehead on the cold wood. She can’t take the notebooks with her wherever she goes; the warning on each and every one of them made that very clear, but this isn’t the first time she’s been stuck on something that turned out to be her own mistake. Sometimes she wishes she could just ask someone else, someone smarter, but the thought feels wrong. Imagining bringing a stranger into the little her father left behind makes her weirdly angry. This is hers. Hers to solve and understand. It’s her father.

The notes can’t replace him. Gaby knows that. The calculations and calibrations are far removed from the muddy memories; bathed in sunlight when the math is cold as snow. The notebooks are heavy in her lap, cracked leather and folded pages, used by the hands of a father she can’t remember holding hers. She can’t understand everything, but that doesn’t mean she can’t try to learn. It had started as another treasure hunt, as a map of maybe’s, every line of scribbles a potential clue. But but the stacks of books catch up to her growing length and the library becomes a second home as she desperately tries to understand, until she finally does. The notes can’t replace him, because she will never find him back.

She couldn’t really stop all together though. But the goal did change. It had too.

Memories are vague and lying, constantly written-over by her treacherous brain. Whatever she thought she knew about her father -- a scratchy chin, an old lullaby, the sensation of being thrown up so high in the air Gaby believed she could fly -- are nothing compared to this never-ending well of knowledge. There is no truer way to get inside his mind and understand the man that left her behind.

After all, her father had been a scientist much longer than he had ever been a dad. And Gaby wants to know him. She doesn’t know why.

A throat clears behind her and Gaby jumps up from her daydreaming with a start. Mrs Peiffer smiles behind her too-large glasses, her tight curls dancing around her head as she shuffles near. “You shouldn’t be here so long. They are working you too hard.”

Gaby quirks a smile of her own and quickly closes all books, just in case. ‘They’ are the advanced classes Gaby made up to account for the extra time she spends in here, and the less she says about it the better. Mrs Peiffer can’t catch her in her lies. “I’m doing okay.”

Mrs Peiffer hums, neither agreeing or protesting, and places her tea tray on the table. It’s become a bit of a tradition, tea on Saturday. Gaby finds that she likes the company. Long days of not being able to understand gets lonely sometimes. They drink in a comfortable silence, nibbling on cookies that do not strictly adhere to guidelines. It’s another of those mysteries Gaby doesn’t try to solve. There is shortage of sugar throughout the whole town, but Mrs Peiffer always has enough to make cookies with, and share them with the strange kids reading holes through slow days. It’s the way the world works.

After Mrs Peiffer picks her tray back up, politely reminding her of the time as she does, Gaby can see the sun setting through the small walls in the building. Only then does she notice how cold it is and wraps her jacket over her shoulders. With practiced movements, she takes the books back where they belong and repacks her bag. She wishes she could take at least one book home with her, but her mother would ask questions, and Gaby hates to take books home when so many have been lost already.

There are other books, forbidden books, that she does try and save, but the physics books should belong to everyone, and taking them home feels selfish. And maybe she hopes that if the books stay here, someday there will be someone sitting on this table, able to help out. Someone her age. Someone she can trust. Someone other than the men with empty eyes and grey suits, whose lips thin when Gaby answers the wrong way. She can’t show them how much she knows, but she wishes she could have someone to talk to. The chances are slim, and that hurts.

As it is now, she doesn’t trust anyone much.

\---

Napoleon twists the crack out of his back as he puts his brush into an old can filled with muddy water. He stretches his hands, winching as the fingers tremble and shake, covered in staines and scrapes, his nails ragged and dirty. Napoleon never used to think of himself as idle, but constantly being covered with paint was something to get used to. He’d been using harsh soaps to get the stuff off his fingers before class, until one of the girls noticed a splash of green on his school uniform jacket, and had started blushing when Napoleon explained his art projects. Intrigued, Napoleon had discovered that the majority of the girls – and a few of the boys – in his year had a positive response to his artistry, something that made Napoleon sick with laughter when he got back home. He’d spend all this time and energy trying to keep himself clean, only to find out that they preferred him a to be a little rough, a little free-spirited. So the paint stays on now, it’s a win for everyone involved.

Napoleon twists his wrists slowly and smiles at the memory, before looking at his creation in progress. In the darkness of the room, most of the details wash out into one large blue plane, but Napoleon’s trained eyes can see the familiar lines throughout the piece. The edges of a shoreline; the steam of a large ship; surfers gliding over waves and the sun making everything shine. It’s dynamic and abstract but the subtle contrast and intricate light gives it the illusion of realism. Taken as a whole the scene feels mellow. More like a memory than a dream; slow and full of life, but not as solid as reality.

Napoleon closes his eyes and sighs deeply. He hates it. He hates everything about it. He despises the canvas from corner to corner and wishes it would spontaneously combust so he never has to look at it again. He hates it so much his stomach turns; the sensation of seasickness as if he is floating in the sea instead of painting it.

And he doesn’t even know why he hates it, why the feeling of _wrong wrong wrong_ shakes through him with every brushstroke– or maybe he _does_ know and the simple truth is that it isn’t good enough. That it will never be up to standard. There will always be something small, something off, that will bleed over into the whole work until he doesn’t see the end of the mistake anymore. The fault becomes its entirety. Is it the proportions or the shape of the shadows; the subject or the abundance of unnecessary details? Is there a balance or does he need to add more– less. _Not enough. Not good enough._

Napoleon grits his teeth and wipes his forehead. What he needs is food and some damn rest. Maybe he’ll wake up tomorrow and finally stop chasing this childish dream. Like he could ever make a masterpiece. As if that even exists. Napoleon doesn’t believe anymore, his steadfast confidence whittled under years of long nights and exhausting failures. But for some reason he can’t stop either. As if there is a heretofore unknown illness driving him, taking over his mind until he feels lost and small after a day without creating. The absence hurts more than the torture of imperfection. He needs this, and he hates nothing more.

Napoleon takes another hard look at the painting and then turns away, throwing a quick prayer to whoever’s listening that this will be the last time. That tomorrow he will wake up and never pick up a brush again.

His prayer must have come through. Someone must have heard. But Napoleon never wanted it really, not truly. How ever much it hurts, painting is a part of him. He didn’t really want to lose it, especially not like this.

It doesn’t happen the next day, or the day after. He finishes the painting, only to fail with the next. But two years later they call his name, his father’s hand squeezes his shoulder, and Napoleon is flung into a war where the only red is the blood of his squad-mate dying in his hands, the only blue is the colour of the little girl's eyes before she’s shot in the back by a stray bullet, and the only splashes of green are Napoleon’s memories of a better time, unattainable and far away, only visible in his dreams.

\---

Illya gingerly pushes into the heel of his feet, hissing as he does. The damage is extensive, but not as bad as Illya’d feared. That first moment of slicing pain in his toes was one of the most terrifying moment he’s had in his life – he doesn’t count the moments at home; he doesn’t think about home when he’s dancing.

Illya stretches his toes out, three of them already starting to bruise, the nails look painted with black ink.

“Broken?”

Illya represses a sigh. Attempting to hide his feet would be futile, but he can’t help but wish Sasha didn’t have such an eagle eye when it come to her dancers. Injuries in the studio are strictly prohibited, much more so than other companies would do. Especially with their younger subjects. Illya thinks that it’s Sasha’s attempt to prevent a mistake she can’t fix for herself anymore.

“Ilyusha,” Sasha chides, the tell-tale tick and drag of her cane announces her approach. Illya turns to face her and shakes his head in belated answer. Sasha’s face remains impassive, but Illya can read relief in the corner of her eyes, where laugh lines are just starting to appear.

Ever since she’d stopped performing, a single week seems to age her as though it contains a full year. It’s as though she’d been waiting until the need to be perfect wasn’t there anymore, and now her body finally falling back to what someone touched by age and exertion is supposed to be. Illya doesn’t think any less of her for it, on the contrary: he thinks she’s becoming more beautiful. More human. More like someone he could someday hope to impress.

“Just bruised, Mistress,” Illya says, when the twitch of Sasha’s brow asks more specificity.

Sasha hums, her hands repositioning on her cane, almost white with strain. It’s a bad pain day today. “I want you to go to the doctor if it starts to swell, yes? We don’t need one of our principles to be out with a sprain only a month before opening.” Sasha narrows her eyes, contrasting her perceptively disinterested tone. “Or do we?”

“No, Miss,” Illya answers obediently. He can’t help to glow a little bit at her words. Illya wonders if he’ll ever get used to it, the title he carries now. He got lucky with getting the role. They had needed a boy of his age after their usual cast was hit with an infection, and Sasha was ready to recommend him. When the Mistress of the Moscow company offers a replacement, you listen.

“It’s Mistress, boy,” Sasha replies, but her sharp tongue is lost in the small smile growing on her lips. “Now go home. Ice and rest. Take care of your feet–”

“– they’re worth gold,” Illya recites obediently, and then laughs. “I will.” Illya pulls himself up with the barre, testing his foot as he slowly puts weight on it. It hurts. Illya bites the inside of his cheek and tastes blood. His toes feel too cold and pain buzzes like electricity over and through them. Illya can deal with pain, he’s had enough of it – from aching muscles after hours of practice to the sensation of a hand being whipped across his face, again and again and again - but this is different: this pain brings a sick mixture of fear and guilt with it.

He knows he flubbed the landing. He’d become frustrated with failing time and time again, never being high enough, stretched enough, perfect enough, to warrant a glare from Sasha. Illya had felt the anger brewing and had jumped higher than he ever tried to, feeling so ecstatic on the accomplishment he forgot to position his feet, and this horrid pain is the deserved consequence.

Sasha is watching his every move, so Illya schools his face, careful not to show her what he’s feeling. He’s sure she knows anyway. Illya takes a slow step from the barre and bites through the agony as he walks, trying to keep as much of his weight to his left side. By the time he makes it out of the studio room, Illya wants to collapse to the ground and cry. He can deal with pain, he knows how to handle that, but the wave of terror chokes him with every step, because what if this isn’t healed after a day of rest? What if he needs weeks to recover from a single, stupid mistake?

Sasha will never let him rehearse while being on the edge of a major injury. He would miss days or maybe _weeks_ of practice. They’d have to replace him. The one opportunity of his life time to become what he always wanted to be gone up in flames because he couldn’t control his frustration for one second. He’d let anger consume him so that the voice inside his mind had sounded more like his father than himself. He should have been better than that.

Illya grunts, tightening his hand around his bag. He can feel Sasha behind him, but she doesn’t comment when his breathing hitches while he puts on sweatpants over his tights, or when his eyes start to glint as he puts his shoes on. Illya swallows once, and goes to stand, ignoring the trembling wracking through his body.

He’ll get through this. He has to. He can’t let this go. Illya would rather perform with all his bones broken than not perform at all. Ballet is what saved him; it’s what fills his life with something more than the grime and dark at home. The fear in his mother’s eyes, the loud curses coming out of his father’s mouth. Bruises made by aggression instead of passion. Illya can’t believe he ever thought his parents loved each other.

But he’s not thinking about that right now. Illya focuses on the pain and pushes off the ground, almost grateful for the distraction from the direction his mind was leading him in. He’ll go home, ice his feet like Sasha told him to, and be ready again tomorrow. Illya leaves the building for home in the most torturous of paces, and swears to himself that he’ll be back.

It’s a lie. But he doesn’t know that yet.

The first thing he notices are the voices.

His mother’s high shrill shouts but stronger than Illya has heard her in months, and then his father- booming and dark. Illya can’t help but flinch, even though he’s still outside. Normally, they take some precaution not to be too loud, his father gives a lot more about reputation than about the health of his wife, so if Illya can hear them scream and yell on the doorstep, it foretells nothing good.

His toes momentarily forgotten, Illya steps into the house, trying to sneak into the hall without drawing attention to himself. He knows that trying to protect his mother will only make it worse. It will only make his father more angry, redirect his punches on Illya instead, and Mama will try to protect him in return, enforcing the cycle into another bloody end. Illya knows that when he gets the paycheque from this show, he’ll have just enough to grab his bags, take Mama, and run. He’ll dance in a smaller company if it means his mother will be safe.

“You can’t do this. Please. You can’t do this. Don’t you dare.”

“Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do,” Father bellows, and Illya collapses against the hallway wall at the sound that follows. He feels sick. “You let it get so far. This is your fault.”

There is a pause and then, “Illya!” Illya flinches at the sound of his name the dark growling tone but listens at once. “I want you before me. Five seconds.”

Illya shoots up at the order, his heart thundering. The stairs to his room form an tempting escape route, but he knows that disobeying will only make things worse. He walks in. His toes are bleeding in his shoe and the sharp stabs of pain cut through the haze of fear enough to see the strange expression on his mother’s face when he enters the living room. Resigned hopelessness lines her expression, beneath her tears an undercurrent of grief.

Illya reaches for her mindlessly, not conscious of what he is doing until his father slaps his hands away.

“It’s gone on long enough,” his father says, towering over him. Illya squares his shoulders, feeling like a mouse in front of a lion, and desperately determined not to show it.

Father draws a long breath and the pause stretches seemingly endlessly, the silence only being broken by Mama’s occasional sob. Illya knows better than to ask.

Father’s gaze goes from his face to the bag slung on Illya’s shoulders and he stretches out a hand, beckoning. Illya had thought the fall hurt him, but as the weight of his bag leaves his shoulders and large fingers grasp into the fabric, he changes his mind. There is no comparison. He stops breathing. His father holds the bag in front of him as if the mere presence makes him sick. The contents aren’t visible but Illya knows them by heart. His satin shoes, his various outfits for workouts and rehearsal, his bandages and lunch-boxes and the little brown book filled with notes on everything the director and Sasha had said over the course of the production.

Father stalks to the other side of the room, and Illya realises what he’s doing. Something he’d been subconsciously expecting for years finally falls into his conscious with a resounding boom, reverberating through his mind. He can’t stop himself from yelling. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. A long sob chokes through him but Father pays it no heed as he throws the bag into the fireplace, the flames licking over Illya’s most prized possessions, flickering almost like the teeth of Father’s satisfied smile.

“No,” Illya begs. “No, please.”

He fumbles to the fireplace and tries to grab the bag, but the heat is too much and his reflexes push him back with a cry. It’s his mother then, who grabs his arms and pulls him back, shushing him, murmuring, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Illya can’t bring himself to pull away from her firm grasp, her valiant attempts to comfort him. He can’t break away no matter how much he wishes he could join his future into the flames.

“I have tolerated your... predilection for too long, son. It is done. You’ll be joining military training tomorrow. Everything is ready. There is no choice.”

His father’s voice sounds reasonable and clear, and that makes Illya want to scream in anger. He looks up, eyes blazing, but is met with his father’s expression; pure ice, no compassion. He does not care about his son’s dismay. Illya realises that there had never been a world where his father would have let him perform. He’s always been dancing on stolen time. Something deep inside him screams, the injustice wreaks through him. He only wanted to dance. He asked for nothing more. But his father will never let him. It is done, and agony consumes him.

_I know it hurts, Ilushya._ Sasha’s voice comes unbidden, through the chaos of his mind. _But you can’t let them see that. You have to make it look easy. Don’t show them your pain._

Tears gather behind Illya’s eyes, but he swallows them away, forcing his features to melt into a mirror of his father’s, harsh and impassable. Emotionless.

“Yes, sir,” Illya says, and feels himself disappear. The dreams of his childhood vanish. He’ll never be that boy again, brought to silence by perfection. He will never try to be. He is his father’s son, and his father is made of aggression. It’s only logical, then, that he is made for violence too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative summary: putting the 'tragic' in tragic backstory. Personally, I really like Napoleon's part here, artistic troubles melt into self loathing, he could start a club. 
> 
> Thank you so much for welcoming me back! I really missed the whole sharing part of writing stuff, and I didn't even know how much. I hope y'all like this addition! Lemme know <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the spirit of this fic, again warnings for loss and violence. 
> 
> Thank you Peskyheathen (the_worrying_kind on ao3)

“Gaby?” 

Gaby sighs while turning on the rusty tap and putting her hands under the stream. The water is freezing and almost white from calc, but Gaby barely even flinches as she rubs the oil off her skin, the sticky substance slowly revealing her raw fingers. 

“What,” Gaby snaps back, not bothering to turn around. She blows a strand of hair out of her face. “I’m not doing another one, Mark. I’ve been working overtime for two hours. I need to go home and–” 

A firm hand lands on her shoulder. Gaby jumps up. Water splatters to the ground. 

“Mein Gott,” Gaby snaps. “Can you stop?” She closes the tap and twists toward her darned boss to level a glare onto him. She’s too tired to feel guilty for her grumpiness, but it’s his own fault for calling her in for the third early shift of the week and then planning a specialised repair late in the evening. Gaby knows that they’re running low on workers and that the recent rounds of shortages did no one good. But this is getting out of hand. Gaby opens her mouth to file a less than official complaint but when Mark’s face finally registers through her annoyance, and his expression stops her short. 

“Gaby,” Mark says again, dropping his hand from her shoulder. His voice is heavy with sympathy and Gaby’s stomach drops. The world falls to the background. Far away she hears someone sob. _No. God, no._

She must have said it aloud because Mark is nodding, his usually cheery presence now toned down, careful. Gaby get rid off the pity in his eyes, but her chest hurts too much to protest it. She doesn’t need clarification, but she can’t help but ask anyway – maybe she’s wrong. Maybe it’s okay. 

“Is she?” Gaby can’t get more words out. She bites the inside of her cheek. 

“They just called the office,” Mark says. “She didn’t wake up after her nap. I’m sorry.” 

Gaby takes a shuddering breath, nodding. She feels tears somewhere behind her eyes but they don’t come. She’s too numb to force them. Mark is saying something but Gaby can’t hear him. She’s vaguely aware of being pushed onto a chair, Mark’s brown eyes looming worriedly before her. There are other voices and someone pushes a cup of something warm in her hand. 

“I’m okay,” Gaby says to whoever’s listening. “Really. Just tired.” 

Mark nods and doesn’t push her for more, for which Gaby is grateful. It wasn’t a lie. She’s fine and so goddamn tired. She’s been for months, almost half a year. Ever since the diagnosis was made and her mother’s glassy eyes now had a name, the blood she coughed up a cause. Gaby is okay because she’d been expecting a call like this for weeks, months even. It’s been getting worse, and the tears almost come when Gaby realises the sensation in the back of her mind is sickening relief, which immediately gets eaten by layers and layers of guilt. What kind of daughter is she, to feel relief upon the death of her mother? 

What kind of daughter _was_ she? 

Gaby puts the cup away and drags her hands over her eyes, shivers leaving a trail along her spine. She wishes grief pulsed through her now, instead of this fluttering of freedom around her heart. The eternal weight on her shoulders falls away and her body feels too light. Too strange. Floating. There had been no choice, she worked and worked, and now it’s all over. 

Maybe, the time for mourning will come, but the truth is that Gaby had lost her mother a long time ago. Even before the sickness, before the fights. So many years ago. Gaby lost her mother when she had found her standing in the back garden, while fire burned a circle in the grass. Gaby had stumbled onto the path, running harder than her legs had ever carried her. There were none not scorched by the heat, after she had doused the fire with a bucket of water. They were all destroyed. Ashes upon ashes, the burial of her father before her eyes. 

“Why did you do this!” Gaby had yelled, screamed. “That’s all that I had left of him! Why Mama!” 

Her mother had already folded into herself back then, her music bitter and her smile fleeting. She would spend her days drinking or smoking, and Gaby never figured out what she had done wrong. 

“You shouldn’t yell at me,” her mother had said. “He is the one that left you.” 

Gaby pushes her nails in her palm and pushes herself out of the memory with a rush of breath. Bile gathers in the back of her throat, but after a few deep breaths, the urge to throw up lessens gradually. 

When she looks up, Mark is still there, his arms crossed and eyes closed, a soft snore coming from his open mouth. Gaby wipes her face with a cloth that looks clean enough, and cherishes the small burst of fondness the sight causes in her. 

She’s always been lucky with Mark. As a father who lost his boys during the War, grief remains an old song on the tip of his tongue. But the years softened him into a man with a smile brighter than most. His mourning had come in the shape of charity, of loving those around him. When money got tight and Gaby had to work to keep them afloat, there was a place for her in the garage, both as a mechanic and something like a daughter. 

She’d never replace his sons, of course, but Mark became the closest thing to a father figure she’d ever had. Maybe he had been her only parent, as a whole, if Gaby doesn’t count the first decade of her childhood. Back when her mother had been more whole than broken, instead of the other way around. 

Mark wakes from his slumber with a start, blinking barely until he realises where he is, yawning his visible suprise away. Gaby watches him, and lets the familiarity of it warm her. A world of terrifying possibility has opened within the loss of her mother, but this will always stay the same. Mark catches her looking, and a tentative smile blooms over his face. 

“Thank you,” Gaby says, before he can ask her anything. 

Mark waves her off. “It’s nothing. You know that.” He hesitates for a moment and then speaks quietly, “You know we have space for you upstairs, right?” 

Gaby sighs, looks away. She knows. Mark has been trying to gently push her to move out for months but- Gaby clenches her fists when she realises that her reason to saying no is gone. 

Mark stands, pats her hand once. “Think about it, yeah?” 

Gaby swallows, keeping her gaze on the ground. She waits until Mark walks out before moving back in her chair, collapsing against the wall. She’s so fucking exhausted. Everything about her life feels like it’s suddenly pulled off its axis. So many decisions to make. She can’t handle this. 

Mindlessly, Gaby touches her breast pocket, tracing the edge of the paper in there. Without thinking about it, she pulls it out. The familiar ragged edges brings an automatic calm to her mind. The folds are soft as she opens it up, pulling the paper straight so she can read the words, the dark ink only just visible between the scorch marks.

Between the calculations and notes, her father had sometimes forgone technical terms for something more personal; something more suited for the parent he once could have been. A brittle smile forms on Gaby’s lips as she rereads the scribble again, and mouths along with the words: 

_Oh Gaby, my dear princess. I look forward to the day you’re old enough to understand. If you want, I will explain all of this to you. If you want, we could save the world someday. Together._

Gaby is alone. The life she’d build surrounded her mother’s illness. Even Mark, and his kindness, had been a necessity instead of her choice. But now she’s truly alone. Her family is dead or gone. There is no reason to stay here, where everything around her reminds her of the life she never wanted to have. Always wanted to be free off. And now, she is, and it terrifies her. She could run, like her father had done. She could stay, and wonder if she’d missed out on something greater than this, for the rest of her days. 

There is only one certainty that matters right now. One single thing that centers the morbid thoughts running havoc in her mind. 

A long time ago, her father had believed in a future with her by his side. This truth, the proof folded into her hands, helps her more than any empty platitude ever could. Gaby lost the determination to hope for a reunion, a true childhood fantasy. 

But, sometimes, when everything is too much, Gaby lets herself believe again, for just a little while. Because the world always seems a little less dark, if somewhere out there, her father lives and breathes, while wishing that things could have been different, all those years ago. 

\---

Napoleon flicks his lighter open and lights a cigarette– his last. He’d lost his stash playing poker with the General and his friends, but it’s going to be worth the shortage when he skins them for all they’re worth next month. If they’re all still alive that is. He takes a deep breath, the filthy smoke curling up into his lungs and out again. He hates the hell out of the taste but Napoleon has seen enough not to mind it. The slight kick of nicotine fires up his numbed mind, if only for a second. He’d prefer alcohol, but luxuries are scarce. 

Napoleon sighs. The scratchy wall of the house they’re squatting in digs into the wounds in his side. Napoleon doesn’t bother to wince, just pushes himself a little straighter to reduce his annoyance. Pain is a normality now, just like the perpetual grey in the skies and the hunger eating away the muscles of their everyone's faces. Their bodies become too thin, tanned skin drawn tightly over bones. Some wounded, some ill, all tiptoeing across Death’s tightrope. Napoleon doesn’t try to remember their names anymore. 

Every week new ones arrive. Every week others fall. Napoleon stopped counting after the umpteenth time of feeling someone’s — a friend, a more than a friend, a would be more than a friend if — heart fade, accompanied with their gurgling fear, choking on the blood that’s supposed to keep them alive. Napoleon takes another drag. _Thomson, Hall, Jimmy._ It’s started raining. _Morris, Duncan, Bell._ Yellow grass slowly makes way for mud. — _John. Oh god. John. No. Please._ — Water slides through Napoleon’s hair, but he pretends he doesn’t feel it. He pretends he doesn’t feel any of it. 

The cigarette burns out and Napoleon drops flicks on the ground. He doesn’t remember their names anymore, but he knows that the young man with blue eyes will be calling him in for dinner soon, and the ginger, who smiles too much, will try drag him into some kind of board game despite his protests. 

The guys are as happy as Napoleon has ever seen them. Their orders are to stay put until the second quadrant joins them before moving east, but recent storms have halted their progress. The abandoned farm was as good of a place to wait as any. Napoleon appreciates having a real bed to sleep in, even though the mattresses are mostly filled with hay, but the food they found in the attic has resulted in the best nourishment they have had in months. 

“Captain!”

Napoleon closes his eyes for one long second and then pushes himself from the wall, marching through the door like he isn’t build from pieces that don’t fit together anymore. He shakes the rain out of his hair and fits a companionable smile on his face. The boys don’t know him well enough to see through the facade. 

Ginger has his dirty boots on the dinner table, reclined in his chair as if he’s a Roman emperor. Blue Eyes is glaring daggers at him from the kitchen but his face softens when he notices Napoleon walking inside. 

“Nice weather?” he asks, a hint of a smirk coming up. The others laugh, a chorus of mischief. 

“Perfect actually,” Napoleon replies easily, flicking Ginger on the knee as he walks past. “I almost saw the sun.” 

“ _Almost_ ,” Ginger repeats, mock reverence in his voice. “That’s as close as we’ve been since August.” 

“It was sunny two weeks ago, though,” Tiny protests, sitting in the back with a sweater around his shoulders. Napoleon makes a note to check on him later; he gets sick too easily. If he wasn’t a perfect shot, Napoleon would have sent a complaint back to the recruitment officer. The fact that they’re sending minors is already concerning, but the sick are of no use in a war; they need to be home. 

“What are you talking about?” Doc asks. “Two weeks ago it was storming as any other day, but you were so pissed you could have seen Cleopatra and believed it. I told you not to drink the whiskey. You’re a lightweight.” 

Napoleon tunes out another round of bickering and seats himself beside Ginger, ignoring the imploring smile that gets directed at him. Blue Eyes arrives with a large pan and frowns at the sand still on the table, before sighing to himself and providing everyone with a plate. The conversation flows easy after that. Between eating and drinking and laughing, Napoleon doesn’t feel pressure to participate much. He nods and smiles at the right moments and doesn’t flinch away when Ginger clasps him on the shoulder, lost in a fit of laughter. It’s good enough.

Napoleon is glad that they have a moment where their stress can melt away in familiarity, that their pain lessens between walls and warm dinners. Every week new ones arrive, Napoleon reminds himself. He doesn’t know why he’s the one that remains, the one that leads them to their demise. This small respite in their terror-ridden lives is only temporary, and Napoleon will have to be the one that orders them out, carry them back under the burden of violence. 

Tiny speaks of a childhood vacation, his eyes bright as he recounts swimming in the sea so blue and translucent he could see the fish swimming under him. Napoleon swallows and tries not to think about the smile slipping of their faces as bullets fly overhead. But the image consumes through his efforts. Guilt lights a fire in his stomach. The faces flicker and change, until they carry the names Napoleon tries so hard to forget. 

Napoleon clenches his fists and stands, the scrape of his chair brings immediate silence to the room. 

“You good, Cap?” Ginger’s hand touches his wrist and Napoleon wishes he could hate that. He wants to despise the opportunity of another tentative bond, another to be snapped mercilessly given time. The rest of the boys look at him with wide eyes; he doesn’t usually leave. He stays with them, laughs with them, drinks with them. It’s what a Captain should do. Doc frowns, suspicious. Napoleon can’t deal with questions. 

Napoleon gathers himself with a breath, smiles a little tiredly. Just honest enough to keep them off his back. “I’m good, but I’m going to call it a night. Keep it down, yes?” 

“Aye,” is the general consensus, and Napoleon walks away. His wrist burns. Ginger doesn’t follow him. 

The conversation picks up again when he reaches the first floor, and Napoleon takes a moment to listen to the murmurs floating through the house. Warm, peaceful and so painfully temporary. Napoleon left fear behind a long time ago, but as he hears his men talk through the night, Napoleon wishes he could let them go too. 

But he can’t. Not yet. 

Ginger dies with his hand clasped around Napoleon’s. Ginger dies with a — _red red red_ — laugh as he pulls Napoleon closer. Napoleon kills too many men with Ginger’s blood on his lips. The rest survive, but Napoleon doesn’t put himself together again. Blue eyes fill with fear as Napoleon yells at them, his anger dark and rotten, lashing out anyone who dares to get near. They can’t help him anymore. The barrel is cold against his temple. If the goddamn Nazis couldn’t do their fucking job after four hellish years, Napoleon is fine with doing it for them. But Tiny finds him, lets out a terrifying whimper and Doc punches Napoleon in the jaw until Napoleon allows him to take the gun. 

Napoleon leaves when night falls. He doesn’t remember their names. He’s glad. 

\---

Illya learns to fit within himself. His body grows strong and greater than the boy inside, gritting his teeth and twisting itself around what remains of his heart. There is no time for sorrow between these walls; the recruits sweat their tears away. Illya finds peace in a punching bag, in bloody knuckles and aching wrists. He finds new ambitions in the satisfied smile of his trainer and the flushed shame of his opponent. Illya runs ahead of the rest, pushing to the breaking point and continuing beyond. Past memories are swept away with present accomplishments, and after years of training he becomes what they want him to be. It’s easier that way. He doesn’t have to think about what could have been, when his commander gives him the badge with a rare clap on his back; a quirk of his lips around his cigarette as he says, “You are going to do great things, Kuryakin. Make the motherland proud.” 

Illya grits his teeth, nods. His back rod-ram straight, hiding the trembling within. 

He’s called back after the ceremony, and his first true assignment begins not an hour later. There is no time to rest between missions and duty, no responsibility to order the pieces in his chest. So long as he can work, he doesn’t have to worry about the pain. Illya knows what he is capable off. He knows what he is good at. What they trained him for. The rest doesn’t matter. It never did. 

The mission is a retrieval of information, hidden within a small but guarded compound. They are waiting for him. Someone leaked, someone told, someone thought a nice vacation home away from all the blood and gore was worth more than loyalty to the motherland. Another traitor, like his father. The mission continues despite the risk. Deal with it, they said. 

No witnesses, they said. 

Illya gets to work. 

German, American, soldier or prisoner, innocent or murderer. Illya doesn’t ask. He was ordered not to care, so he doesn’t. The neck snaps in one ugly twist. The man gurgles before going unnaturally still. Illya drops him, and moves on. Bullets ricochet off the concrete walls and his body dives away, running through motions ingrained in him through years of training. 

He doesn’t think, follows muscle memory to survival. His hands end two more lives. The mission is a success. With the files in his pocket, the agent disappears the way he came, leaving behind a trail of death and destruction. The agent - Illya - is hollow. The agent succeeded. The agent reports back for another mission. He listens, nods, kills, and moves on. It’s how they want him to be. He’s good at it. 

The word spreads. More missions, more recommendations. He comes back from a search and rescue burned. Everything hurts. The civilian he was supposed to protect didn’t make it out alive, but through the exhaustion and pain Illya can’t pretend to feel guilty about it. 

The man had been a nazi, a killer, but also a potential source. For the good of the country, he had to treat him like a man instead of a monster. He had sent so many to die, lived richly on the souls of those he had despised, but Illya killed for him anyway. He was ordered to. 

“We’re much alike, you and I,” the monster had said, smiling shark-like at Illya’s blood soaked uniform. Bodies were strewn around them but it had been those words that had made Illya sick to his stomach. 

“It’s a pity, that you were born in the land of ice,” he said. “You would have been perfect for our cause. You would have been our miracle.” His eyes glinted, reminding Illya of someone. 

An explosion interrupted them, and everything lit up in flames. 

Illya remembers thinking that they were done for. Illya remembers feeling relief. After all, the world would be better place without either of them. Two monsters less. 

But he survived. Woke up. Moved on. He should have saved the man: left earlier, not let his words hinder his actions and seal his fate. But he hadn’t. The man had died screaming, and the only thing Illya regrets is that he hadn’t died with him. That he had to live. Illya pushes himself harder, farther, falls deeper, until he can walk again. 

The agent receives another mission. A new face comes to inform him, someone higher up. The nurses are nervous. The doctors draw pale. The cafeteria becomes empty as the clock ticks the time away, and the stranger arrives. His new handler calls himself Oleg, and the agent doesn’t ask if the name is real. 

“Are you ready for fieldwork, agent?” 

“Yes, sir.”

Oleg scrutinises him for a moment; eyes follow the burns barely peeking out underneath the hospital issued trousers. They’re itchy and too short. They show too much. 

“It’s nothing sir,” the agent says. “I am ready.” 

“Hmm,” Oleg says, tilting his head a fraction to the side. “It really isn’t for you, is it?” 

The question sounds rhetorical, so the agent doesn’t answer. He stares ahead, awaiting orders, breathes until they come. 

They come. And again, and again, and again. The agent – Illya – the agent. Ill–the agent listens, and acts, and listens and acts. He’s good at it. It’s easy. The orders never stop. He waits and waits and–

_Don’t show them your pain, Illushya. I know it hurts._

_Don’t show them your pain._

_Don’t show them._

_Don’t show them._

_Don’t._

It’s easier that way–

It is almost easier that way. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi y'all, how's life? I'm gonna try to keep this sunday schedule going, but as I'll start from scratch this week, it might be late anyhow. I'm going to try my very best! 
> 
> As usual, any and all comments/rambling conversations fuel the muse ;)


	4. Chapter 4

The engine stutters as Gaby drives over a road cracked by time and apathy. She tightens her hands around the steering wheel and gnashes her teeth, annoyed to the point of exhaustion. She’s been driving for over three hours, leaving the city and it’s fairly useable infrastructure for this abandoned maze, barely recognisable as the place she grew up in. Not for the first time, Gaby wonders why she’s doing this, but that fleeting thought gets trampled under the desperation that’s been haunting her for months. 

Gaby has been trying to find a place ever since her mother passed away but there was always something missing, something wrong, sabotaging any attempt to feel at home wherever she tried. Even Mark and the familiarity of her life there never felt right, and the emptiness in her chest only grew larger with them around. As if she should have been able to participate, but couldn’t, stuck in a shadow version of the world around her. She tried traveling, tried to find something new to learn, but with fleeing came loneliness, came unbearable darkness and things… things got bad. 

A close call to following her mother’s love affair with alcohol got Gaby out of her stupor just in time, and deep down she knew where she needed to go if she ever wanted a new chance at life. 

Which brings her back to the worst road in history, maybe even in the universe. The engine roars, only just audible over the rain clattering against the car’s roof. Gaby lets out a delighted curse when her wheels finally find grip onto the muddy surface, and she’s able to turn with the curve without ending up in a ditch. 

She drives, keeping her eyes straight before her, trying to ignore the changes that litter her surroundings. From the corner of her eyes she can’t help but see the empty patches of trees, cut down for cheap wood. The forest around her feels wrong, sick maybe, as if the trails brought by years gone past poisoned it. Little children now won’t be able to roam around, under every bush an explosion could be hidden; one misstep and they will never walk again. Maybe the trees know how unsafe it is and try to warn visitors away, instead of inviting them in like they used to. 

With the radio permanently shut off – there are some things Gaby doesn’t want to know about anymore – the rain and the rush of wind are the only things accompanying her as she drives deeper into the forest. The passenger window is stuck halfway open– it has been since she bought the driving trash can that is her car. Despite the chill it brings, Gaby has learned to love it; outside sounds and smells seem so much closer without the glass keeping everything away. It feels like she’s really here, though different than how she remembers. Maybe it’s the factories she had seen lining the way here, or the abandoned houses rotting away in the cold. It’s novel, a sense of wrongness with a purpose. 

She reaches another empty patch, stretching over the hill where she used to play tag between the trees, just after school. Now, stumps make away for a row of tents centred around a rundown building, patched up with wooden planks. The paint has come off the walls. Large letters on a scrappy board reveal its new purpose. ‘ _Training Camp’_ it says, and Gaby drags her eyes away, before the little silhouettes in the distance turn into too young boys with tired eyes, children she’d seen in the city before. Ones that shouldn’t be here, in the place that used to teach her how to read, now learning how to shoot and hide, bandage wounds and march in line. They say it teaches them discipline and honour. Gaby thinks they’re raising a new generation of pawns. The war is supposed to be over. But it never truly seems to be, around here. She doesn’t look back as the camp disappears from sight. 

Time slows down without edges, as flashes of green and brown pass her by. Eventually, the road forks into two thin paths, and Gaby doesn’t have to think before taking the left one home. Or at least where home used to be. 

Thick branches hang over the road, their leaves brushing Gaby’s windows. The car hobbles over dead wood and rocks, while the engine protests as the ground becomes steeper. Gaby turns her steering wheel, ready to pull up onto the driveway as the road broadens, but her path is blocked by a large steel fence. Gaby stops the car and drags her hands down her face. This is exactly what she needed. 

After her little moment of despair, she reaches in the back of her car to find a her duffel bag and pull it to the front. She searches around for a tiny can of coffee and two sandwiches wrapped in thin foil, and is immensely grateful for her foresight. Her late lunch allows her to regain some perspective. She made it. She’s here. The house that shaped her childhood stands regale before her, overrun by poison ivy, but looking all the more beautiful because of it. Gaby thinks her younger self would have loved it, and the idea makes her smile. 

The fence before her is two meters tall and a sore sight. A little red warning plate tells those who dare to proceed that they will suffer an untimely death. A large chain-linked lock closes the gate, and barbed wire lines the top. It seems to go on around the whole property, cutting right through mother’s garden– what remained of it anyway. Only the grapevine seems to have survived the neglect, covering the shed from back to front. 

Neither the warnings nor the lock deter Gaby, and it’s only when she exits the car to get her tools she realises the rain has let up. Minuscule droplets flutter down through the sky, dusting her skin pleasantly and shimmering in the light. The clouds part just enough to see the sun shining behind them and at once the forest seems to come alive. Bright green leaves shine around her, and her flowers have taken over the garden until over the forest line. If she ignores the state of the house, and the fence’s looming presence, it’s almost like she truly came back home. 

But of course, she didn’t. 

Home was twin yellow mugs, one coffee and one tea, a light chat just before school. Home was dinner in the garden and never feeling alone. Home was music, laughter and life, but that shouldn’t be tied to one building. Somehow, it turned out to be for her. After the move to the city, mother never regained herself again. She left something behind in this house. Gaby is looking for the remains of someone even further lost to the past. 

Gaby cuts the lock in two with her bolt cutters and pushes the gate open with relative easy. Gaby puts the cutters in her pocket, takes her crowbar with her after a moment of hesitation, but leaves the rest of them in her car. She slips through the open gate and takes her very first step back in time. The gate falls closed behind her. 

Gaby shivers. She wraps the leather jacket she stole from her very last client a little tighter around her shoulders as the rain starts to pick up again. She takes a cigarette out of an inside pocket, lighting it behind the protection of her hand. She takes a drag and sighs out. Mother would have disapproved, however hypocritical that might be, which is probably why Gaby started in the first place. Now it seems too childish but it’s not a habit Gaby has been able to drop. 

She follows the stone path through the garden, stepping over tall grass that grew around it. Her boots break twigs and plants underneath her, the sounds echoing and harsh. The closer she gets to the house, the more signs pop up; glaring boards whose warnings grow increasingly ridiculous. Gaby is fairly sure there isn’t any radiation poisoning imminent around here. 

When she reaches front door only to find red tape forming a cross on its surface, Gaby rolls her eyes. They are very desperate to keep people away from here, almost as if they realised that someone very important had lived here once, not knowing that his daughter had already uncovered his secrets more than a decade before, and that her mother destroyed those documents in her vengeful grief. 

Her mother might have been a hero, in the end. A little teenage girl is no security for the kinds of information her father had left behind. In the wrong hands, his inventions could have brought the world to its knees. Gaby takes another drag. Maybe burning the journals had been the best thing her mother had ever done. She might have saved lives. And Gaby hated her for it until she died. 

Gaby pushes against the door, but something is blocking it inside. She takes a step back and places a well aimed kick in the middle. The door flies open. Gaby steps inside. 

The first thing she notices is how nature has forced its roots in every nook and cranny. The hallway is covered in webs. Gaby has to duck around them to make it to the living room without spiders in her hair, continuing cautiously as rats skitter back into darkness. A large nest fills the old chair by the window with two speckled eggs cradled in it’s center. A bird screeches outside. Gaby looks around and feels like the invader, disturbing the creatures that made this abandoned place their home. 

But between all the rotten leaves and animal litter, familiar furniture and pieces of the past become more and more visible in Gaby’s eyes. She’s torn between the contrasts; her memories and this new but old reality; the empty lifeless feeling her childhood home never used to hold, and this wild form of liveliness. 

In her distraction, the sound of something breaking jars her out of her thoughts. Gaby twists around, heart racing, suddenly starkly aware that anyone could have followed her here. She tightens the hold on her crowbar and flicks her gaze from window to window, trying to look for anyone who could have been the source. It’s only then that she realises the windows are empty, jagged glass pieces barely hanging on to their frames. Gaby looks at the ground and sees the lost glass beneath her boots, broken pieces lay throughout the whole room. She takes a cautious step and the same sound repeats itself, glass breaking under her as she walks. 

It’s not only nature that took it upon itself to reclaim this space. Someone must have been here; broken all windows, trashed the living room. Gaby sees the mess around her in another light: not caused by time and it’s surroundings, but by a person, desperately searching for something. She should have known that they had gone further than only locking the house away. No mere thieves, but government agents, looking for the information Gaby already knows by heart. 

Gaby sighs. Her cigarette is nowhere finished, but she’d forgotten it and the wind took it’s flame. She throws it away. There is little chance she will find anything that resembles an answer here. Anything useful must have been taken, and Gaby knows she’d already searched the whole house for years and years, and never found anything more than that one blue chest filled with journals. 

It’s just that she had nowhere else to go. No one else to ask. Gaby sets her shoulders. This is the last time she’ll be looking at the past. One last time to figure out why her father left. She has little hope for answers, but it might finally bring closure, a chance to close this chapter of her life. 

Because over the years she’s come to understand her father’s notes and ideas. Without the care of her mother on her shoulder, she had time to think, and her father’s journals started haunting her dreams. As a child, every invention had seemed like something fantastical, but now the formulas that remained ingrained in the fabric of her mind, bring a chill to her spine. 

Gaby doesn’t dare to write them down, however incomplete they might be through the erosion of memory. There are enough forces in the world who would be eager to get their hands on them. This fact solidly proven by the gutted state of every room she walks into. She reaches the attic with shaking legs. Holes in the roof let tiny waterfalls steam down, the floorboards fragile with mold. Gaby crawls on her hands and feet, the space way more cramped than she remembers. Her knees catch on nails and splinters, piercing through the thick fabric of her jeans. 

It’s more than just an answer to why her father left and never came back, if Gaby is being honest. Which she is rarely, especially to herself. 

Those rare honest nights are dark and endless, with a glass of prohibited substances close at hand. Gaby wonders for hours if her father became one of those men turned violent by hate. She’s heard too many stories of great weapons and even greater destruction. Sometimes, when she’s reading news and lets her mind run through the calculations, the numbers fit like pieces in a terrible puzzle, painting a picture of what her dad may have been working on over the years. 

The thought makes her sick. 

So maybe this is the start of a hunt, because if her dad became one of those men and still is one, she will do everything in her power to stop him. 

There is nothing in the attic, except for two marriage pictures. Her mom smiles in the camera. Gaby barely recognises her. The man holding her hands in his has no face; two perfectly round burn marks erase him. Gaby doesn’t know why her mom didn’t burn them with the journals. She doesn’t know why she kept them. 

Gaby climbs back downstairs, and takes a deep breath before opening the door to her mother’s room. Gaby doesn’t know if she’s really looking for answers anymore, or just for the confirmation her father isn’t the man she knows he could be. Maybe she already knows why her father left. Someone that smart shouldn’t be held back by a child. He should be out there, inventing a new world for everyone. Maybe Gaby has been working for the moment that she could be worthy to join him. A partner instead of a burden. Knowledgeable and useful. A daughter a man like her father could be proud off. 

But if his mind has been turned to the destruction of others, so much suffering could have been caused by him. Who knows what he’s capable off. Who knows what he could be doing right now. 

Gaby doesn’t want to be a part of it. She will put an end to it. 

Her mother’s bed is too dark, and when Gaby touches it she realises why. Ashes cover her fingers and she flees the room. Bile rises up her throat. Did her mother do that? Or did a stranger come to burn someone’s bed? Why would anyone? Is it a threat? 

Gaby shakes her head. She should have known coming here would only bring more questions. Suddenly exhausted, she sits down on the bottom step, and puts her head in hands. She doesn’t even know if her dad is still alive, so why does this image tarnished image of him capture her so? Why did she drive all the way out here, based on a nightmarish idea that is probably nothing more than grief induced insanity? She should have stayed with Mark. Let his family make her better. She’s losing it. That’s why everything feels so wrong. There is nothing in the past for her to understand. She doesn’t deserve to know. Why is she still trying? Why would she keep trying after–

The door opens. Gaby freezes. 

A man in a long black trench coat steps in. He shakes out his umbrella calmly, and looks up with a small smile on his face. 

Gaby stops breathing. The man reminds her too much of those men in grey suits. The ones who threatened and killed for answers. The ones that followed her in the city. The ones that– 

“Miss Teller,” the man says, and Gaby can breathe again. He’s not one of them. The stranger’s accent crisp and clear. 

“England is a long way away,” Gaby comments in a way of greeting. She keeps her hand around her crowbar. He might sound polite, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t dangerous. 

The man tilts his head as if he idea hadn’t occurred to him. “I suppose it is, indeed. I wanted to speak to you personally, Miss Teller. We are long overdue a chat.” The man holds out a gloved hand and smiles again. “My name is Waverley, I’m British intelligence, and we are desperately in need of your assistance.” 

Gaby searches the man’s face for dishonesty, but can’t find anything concrete. She raises an eyebrow and says, “Make yourself at home.” 

Waverley’s gaze scans the mess around them and his eyes brighten with amusement. He drops his hand when Gaby doesn’t move to meet him. “Thank you. So sorry for barging in like this, but I’d imagine you’d like to hear about your father.” 

Gaby tries keep her expression neutral, but she knows she failed. “What about him?” 

“He’s been in a series of troubles for many years now, but my team and I are sure that the moment has arrived to save him, and the world from certain annihilation, all the while balancing the precarious situation of two opposing spies playing tug of war with the potentially greatest weapon of the world.” Waverley rattles this information off as if he’s reading a particularly exciting weather report. Before Gaby can take anything in, he continues, his expression a hint more serious. 

“You, Miss Teller, are a key feature in this rescue operation, and I’ll be delighted to tell you everything in the car. We have little time to waste.” 

“So he’s alive?” Gaby can’t help but ask. She has to be sure. 

“Quite,” Waverley confirms with sympathy in his tone. “From our intel, it’s never been his intention to stay away from his family as long as he did. It’s all been a series of tragic circumstances. Scientists are very wanted in times of war. Your father was one of the unlucky ones. Though he did survive, and not everyone can say that.”

Gaby blinks, her vision greys. Her father is alive. Her father was captured. Her father is alive. Her father is in danger. 

In all her years thinking, looking, searching, hoping, Gaby had not once considered the possibility that her father had not left voluntarily. In hindsight, it’s stupid, naive even. Maybe her mother’s stories full of resentment influenced her without noticing, making her blind to her own experiences. She’s grown up with violence just around the corner, manhunts and executions: people pulled of the streets for reasons she never understood as a child. But when she had imagined her dad leaving, it was always with a purpose evident on his vague face, a sense of possibility and maybe even excitement.

Those journals had convinced little Gaby that her father had been invincible. How could someone so smart ever be contained? How could her father be taken?

“We are a bit short on time,” Waverley says apologetically. “I imagine this is all very sudden and strange for you, but if you wish to save your father... We should go now.” 

Gaby knows she has no reason to trust this man. But if what he says is true, it’s the closest to an answer she’s ever been, and if she can save her father, there will be no limit to the questions she can ask him. She could know him. She could have a family again. 

“I’m in,” Gaby says, and stands up straight. “Tell me everything you know.” 

Waverley smiles. “I will be glad to.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the format break y'all, the outline got too long to be able to do all the pov's in one chapter and still make the deadline. Next up is Napoleon :) See ya next week :D


	5. Chapter 5

After the war, Napoleon makes a name for himself.

In the wake of destruction, a new economy rises: a black market free to roam in the daylight, unafraid for consequences now the great threat has been eradicated and the nations of the world are battered and burned. Law enforcement is a finicky thing in times like these. Between the rubble and restoration, order is hard to come by. Within this limbo of crime and justice, Napoleon finds the space to flourish.

He starts with languages, building on the loose sentences his squad-mates and locals had taught him, and with his new found vocabulary he finds his first treasures. Opportunities are abound. The Nazi’s didn’t destroy everything they took, far from it. Everything with worth was carefully kept, like dragons hoarding all shine they can find. Their nests now abandoned for those who know where to look for them. Napoleon follows where there is money to be earned, learning the various crafts that come with the acquisition of valuable materials.

Many of these objects are paintings and Napoleon uses his lost past to his advantage. The art, he knows. He can spot a fake through the scope of his sniper rifle from a mile away. It has saved him from quite a few hassles for no gain.

The rest he learns to become, or not to be.

He lets his hair grow long, it’s glistening locks distracting from the dark shadows below his eyes. He trains the rigidity out of his step, loosens his wooden shoulders and chases the war out of himself until he can be in a busy space without keeping an eye on every potential threat, until he can sit calmly with a door behind his back and until his smile covers the flinch every time he shoots his gun. He tries not to do it much. Instead he finds a way without conflict, without having to trade blood for gold.

Humans are easy to fool, they remind him of the children in his youth. It’s all in the way you carry yourself, every detail leads to a predictable outcome, an emotional path. Napoleon learns what shirt make people trust him, and what jacket allows him to walk everywhere he wants to go. He learns body language, to read it and to play it. A little game of pretend. Confidence is seen as authority, and false intimacy as honesty. Napoleon learns to use his looks for his plans, securing the jewellery off the rich. What once were his masks, now become his repertoire of personalities, and with it he earns the trust he needs to pass unnoticed and unquestioned, able to get away before anyone notices something missing.

Napoleon’s confidence grows with his plans, larger with every success. He learns how to become what he needs to be, sliding in and out of people and personalities with ease. He learns how to be a bodyguard, a waiter, a businessman, musician, or anyone else the situation demands from him. At one memorable occasion his role included pushing a baby carrier filled with a sack of potatoes into the Thames, the following commotion brought him the vault key he had been searching for. The poor secretary all too willing to comfort the traumatised father who just lost his child in a freak accident.

Napoleon tries to be an painter exactly one time. He learns that you cannot pretend to be what you once were.

The years pass fast with Napoleon running high on adrenaline and ability, expanding his territory from the wet caves stock-full of war treasure, to the homes of those who got away with Rembrandts and Van Goghs, just by bribing the right official during Hitler’s reign.

Napoleon doesn’t think they deserve to keep them, but his favouritism for these locations above others is caused by their hilarious shoddy security. Such is the eternal paradox of safes; once someone is rich enough to get the best of the best, they then neglect to take any other precautionary measures. A cocktail party is enough to get Napoleon in and out, cracking the safe with three glasses of champagne in his system.

It’s almost too easy sometimes. He nicks a statue twice his size purely for the fun of it, a logistical challenge that costs him months and provides him with a nickname for eternity.

Some journalist eager for a promotion starts the trend and ends Napoleon’s relatively quiet career. He writes an article, thick bold letters on the front page, “ _Apollo, the silent thief of the post-war age_.” and it catches on. The writer only ties two other heists to this Apollo, one of which Napoleon hadn’t even done, but the word is out there and new headlines pop up speculating which recent burglaries could have been done by this notorious thief.

Apollo is everywhere and Napoleon decides that if he can’t escape it, he will find a way to use it. It’s not that bad of a nickname, he knows people who have been dubbed “the cockroach” or something equally horrid. He’s is glad he didn’t steal Zeus or Hades instead.

Apollo he can work with; it has a certain class, something that makes people think of him as more than a criminal, and the public always likes to root for an art thief, it’s the one field of crime that carries prestige more than contempt. The charming suited gentleman, tricking the riches from people who have too much to begin with. Almost Robin Hood-esque; if it were Hollywood Napoleon would have given all his profits to orphans. But he’d rather use it to buy another nice pair of shoes. As investment in the business of course, the right loafers can bring him in a room with another treasure to be stolen. You have to look the part, and that’s something Napoleon is rather good at.

So the general public knows him as Apollo, and Napoleon lets them know him, here and there. It’s free marketing that slowly trickles down to the people he wants to reach. Apollo is for hire and his business card is in every newspaper a person could find.

His colleagues and clients know his true title. Napoleon Solo, or Solo for short. _The_ Solo. The one and only. He’s requested now, collectors desperate for their life’s piece; the painting they’d been dreaming of for years, out of options but not far from out of money. They keep their backs straight but their eyes are begging, pleading Napoleon to get them that last painting, the one that will finally complete their collection. Napoleon shakes their hand and promises them the world. They always come back for just one other. Repeat until their money runs out. It’s an addiction Napoleon is happy to encourage.

Not only clients approach him for his successes. There are clubs, restaurants, villas, safe places for those who live outside the lines of the law. Napoleon visits them every once in a while, for a job or a sell, or some information he can buy. People notice him more, the room turns to look when he walks in. Napoleon smiles and smiles.

And every time, someone comes up, green and eager, asking a million questions a second. Napoleon indulges them, always happy to help another of generation of quick fingers and tricksters. The conversation always ends the same. “Are you looking for a partner or mentee? I want to learn more, and I’m a good listener.” And Napoleon would smile sharply, shaking his head, ignoring the droop in their faces. “Apologies my dear, but I work alone. It’s Solo, after all.”

The war taught him more than how to shoot, how to kill and how to pretend darkness isn’t eating you alive, even to yourself. The war taught him that loss is in every corner, and the only way to avoid it is to never start. Napoleon works well alone; he’s content alone. The few times he needs company, he finds someone to dance with. He smiles and charms, fucks the breath out of them, and disappears into the night. They never know his name. They don’t have to.

With the uptake in jobs and heists, comes more interest from the dogs of justice. Where Germany has cut itself in two, Great Britain and France are still tired and broke from the war. But people love to pretend the apocalypse didn’t happen, they do so every time. They are desperate to get back to normal again, so people go back to work, find their way into life again, and with that comes the slow reawakening of the status quo. With order and clarity, the police come back to life. Napoleon blames the headlines, and blames himself for those damn headlines, but suddenly a hunt kicks off, interconnected and hungry for blood. The dogs start to collaborate.

Napoleon commends them for being able to work together at all. It’s flattering, a whole task force solely for his own person. Maybe even poetic; a thief’s greed bringing them together after a fracturing war. Ironic, then, that the war created him in the first place. Napoleon has no desire to go home, no desire to create when everything feels rotten in his hands. Stealing is a puzzle is complex factors and a clear desired outcome. It’s like a game, though the rewards several millions worth. How can that even be when there are still cities in destruction and crisis? Who would pay for a piece of canvas when there are children starving in the streets?

Napoleon doesn’t pretend to care all that much about the answers. He figures the war has cost him enough, his nation has cost him enough. If they want to run after him, chasing their tails while Napoleon moves on to the next city, the next country. They can feel free to do so, even if they’re team players now. Some diversity in the dogs isn’t going to change the game. If nothing else, it will be more fun.

Napoleon knows there are no true limits to his reign of burglary. It’s merely the question of being at the right place at the right time. A practice in patience, planning and adaptivity. Being able to blend in and out of the spotlight. By the time the police catch up, he’s disappeared into the crowds, his treasure under his arm, smiling at a lovely woman walking by. Napoleon leaves them searching in Venice, takes a train to Krakow, and walks around the beaches of Spain not three months later. The dogs keep barking in Venice, and Napoleon has to laugh.

They don’t have it in them to catch him. Napoleon believes this up until he’s thrown in a holding cell, the iron bars closing behind him. All good things must end. The walls dig into his back as he waits for his captors to figure out what to do with him.

In the end it wasn’t skill or intelligence that got him in cuffs. It was plain old luck. His luck had run out, and Napoleon feels nothing. No anger, no frustration. Just numb resignation.

He had been wondering, ever since that bullet hit John in the shoulder instead of Napoleon’s head – _It should have been him. It should have been him_ – when his day would come. Now, maybe.

Day turns into night and Napoleon’s stomach rumbles, unsure when his guards will provide him with food. They might just let him starve here, while the international diplomats fight over who has the privilege to nail him to a pole. The great Apollo captured and tried, any country would like to have that on their resume. Napoleon supposes dying in this dingy cell would be a better fate. He’d insulted those who threw him in here enough for that. Napoleon wraps his arms around his knees and falls into a troubled sleep, preparing himself for a long road to the end.

But Napoleon had been making a name for himself; his accomplishments and feats well known in either side of the light, and the United States of America never loses sight of an asset, may they be traitors, murderers, or thieves.

\---

After the war, America flaunts their great victory, congratulating themselves for saving the world. The rest applauds with them, too broken or too poor to say anything otherwise. Whole nations depend on the steady trickle of cash to rebuild their cities from the ashes, so Uncle Sam’s ego grows greater with every second as no one can tone him down. The only great power opposing this self-declaration of awesomeness is the Soviet Union, and the USA promptly responded with starting another war. Silently, of course, played out in land from theirs, their boney fingers caressing large red buttons on either side. A pissing contest with potentially disastrous consequences, and everyone in the world has to pick a team.

So when Napoleon is captured in France, it’s not much of a surprise they hand him over with a bow on top his head the moment the CIA comes knocking.

There had been some interest over the years, recruitment officers toeing around his operations, offering a place among their ranks and willing to turn a blind eye to the criminal activity and his less than stellar military record. But Napoleon always politely turned them down, and disappeared to a safe-house before they could throw a tantrum and try to arrest him.

The CIA has a reputation too, and Napoleon has many reasons to avoid them at all costs. There is something deeply frightening about people in places of power who are fully convinced they are the good guys. A moral backbone that rationalises destruction and justifies brutality to those deemed less than.

They give him a false choice, a pretend kind of freedom. 15 years in jail, or working for the good of the world. Why would you want to rot away in a cell when you could be a spy? Why indeed.

Napoleon signs, fully aware he’s bound and gagged between daily abuse and some semblance of autonomy, be it with a side of certain death somewhere down the line. If he were to choose jail, a sudden rumour would follow his every step. _The art thief with a preference for young boys_ , the guards would whisper, _maybe teach him a lesson, we won’t punish you for it._

Napoleon signs his life away despite how much he’d rather stab the agent telling him where to put his name in the eye with his pen.

“You’ve made the right choice,” the agent says, clapping his shoulder and Napoleon feels like he’s being sent to another war. He is, in a way.

“The only choice,” Napoleon replies, smiling sharply. “I’d rather be useful while I’m still around. It would be a pity to let someone with my abilities waste away.”

The agent smiles back. “I’m glad you understand our position.”

Napoleon shakes his hand. He’s never wanted to kill someone this much, not since–

Never since.

\---

The first year is more a disaster than Napoleon expected it to be. Of course, he’d known that they wouldn’t give him any leeway. No sane government official would trust a thief to keep his word and not run away the first chance he got. But the contempt is a harsh surprise. None of the renown he’d earned carried over. He’s juggled from handler to handler, none willing to babysit a thief on a leash. The agents who are supposed to be his colleagues see him as nothing but a filthy low life criminal. Someone who slipped through the justice system because of a dirty judge. Napoleon desperately wants to punch them in the groin while delicately explaining that he’s not playing spy because of his own preferences.

But those he can deal with. The real problem are the handlers who see him as a plaything, their little toy. This puppet game can be sending him into the suicidal missions, almost impossible to survive, showing how replaceable he is. Or they turn into moments Napoleon tries to forget as much as his time in the war. The men Napoleon would like to be dead increases dramatically.

It ends up being one of these sad bastards that leads Napoleon to conclude something has to change. He doesn’t drop to his knees when ordered to, smiles instead, and draws his gun. The handler’s eyes dawn in realisation and fear.

“You can’t kill me,” he hisses. “There will be consequences.”

“I know,” Napoleon says, “but this is your warning. I’m going to work. I’m going to follow orders as I see fit to complete the mission our government gave us. This side hobby of yours doesn’t fall into that category, and next time you try I will put a bullet in your head.”

The handler swallows, his eye still stuck to Napoleon’s gun, but continues on bravely nonetheless. “I can make you do anything I want. If you don’t you’ll be thrown into jail and they won’t be as sweet as I am.”

Napoleon shrugs. “I’m done. I’m willing to give this gig _one_ more chance, but if this is the shit I have to take with it, I’d rather take my chances in heaven or hell, whichever opens their ports for me. And if it comes to that, I’ll take you with me.”

There is no way to run, both his handler and Napoleon know that. If Napoleon tries to escape he’ll have the whole of the USA on his trail. He knows too much, from state secrets to assassination orders, for them to let him go. So the only way out is off a ledge or with a bullet, or any other way one could imagine. Napoleon sees the moment the handler realises how much Napoleon means this: the handler closes his eyes and nods, because if nothing else, bastards have a hunger for survival above any other. Napoleon puts his gun away.

“I’m glad you understand my position,” Napoleon says. “You made the right choice.”

And with that, things start to chance. Suddenly there is good intel, researched and planned missions, and the right equipment to bring them to a success. The privileges they’d kept away from him all this time. Napoleon knows how these hierarchies work and he knows how to weasel through them, now he has his own puppet on his team.

Napoleon makes a name for himself once again, determined to keep working until Agent Solo is a man worthy of respect, the most effective spy in the business, an asset they have no choice but to listen to, begging on their knees for more. Napoleon plans to indulge them, if they agree to a few things. Number one, he keeps the handler he has now; he likes the control he has over him. Second, he works alone. And third, he hasn’t had any truffles in a disappointingly long time. They could start there.

It almost worked. It does, for a while. Napoleon regards those memories fondly now; when his word was law, and his squeaky clean mission records got him to the highest of hotels and the loftiest of dinners. It all would have worked out amazingly, if it hadn’t been for Sanders.

\---

Sanders isn’t one of them. If pressed, Napoleon could at least say that about him. He doesn’t want a puppet, he wants a spy. An asset. Napoleon can do that.

He works, but feels the strain. The pressure of having to stay within the lines, having nothing to say. No power. Sander’s eagle eye hovering around his every move. And Sanders is always happy to remind him about those first years: a tease here, a comment there. The message is clear: You’re better off with me. Listen and work and I won’t throw you back to your old masters.

Napoleon does, but it’s suddenly not fun anymore. A lone night in a safe-house he realises that after all these years running from the dogs, it’s quite poetic that he turned out to become one himself. For the first time, Napoleon starts to count the years, hungry for the promise he shouldn’t start to believe in. He knows the CIA. He knows their empty morals. He starts to count anyway. Eight years, Seven years. Six.

Berlin is a change of pace. Berlin provides a challenge in the form of a beast with a peculiar sense of determination. Out running a _car._ To Napoleon it sounds like the end of a bad joke, but apparently according to the KGB it’s a viable pursuit strategy. Napoleon wonders if they train them for it, or if this is Agent Kuryakin’s personal ingenuity. For one, Napoleon doesn’t want to deal with someone like that. It looks like someone who could actually kill him. He got the girl out safely, surviving that escape only barely. He’s done. He’d rather stay alive.

Sanders, of course, disagrees. Or at least, he doesn’t care about the very real risk upon Napoleon’s person.

“You owe me five more years,” Sanders says, like Napoleon doesn’t know. Like the slow drag of time doesn’t simmer in the back of his mind every single day.

Leash tugged, Napoleon gets to work, and sets his teeth in everything to know about his new opponent.

Illya Kuryakin file tells a tragic tale about a traitorous father and a mother caught between the perverse desires of the men around her and a desperate attempt to take care of her son. After this sad, but ultimately unremarkable childhood things start to pick up with high grades in hand to hand combat and strategy, and Kuryakin is send to the KGB as the youngest in history. That’s where the file thins. The documents are scarce, blacked out and heavily speculated. They've kept the lid on tight, but Napoleon knows there must be more behind this virtual murder machine than a few missions around east europe.

Late at night he finds a little note, scrabbled in the margins in one of the files. “Suspected connection with зверь, _The Beast.”_ Napoleon smiles; that sounds like the man he met. American intel is full of holes, as usual, but Napoleon knows exactly who to call to find out more. His has own list of sources, ones he’s been carefully collecting ever since he left the military for another life.

Napoleon grabs the phone and dials a number etched into the lining of his skull exactly for a time like this.

“Hello, darling, tell me exactly how you got this number before you lose the right to live.”

Napoleon laughs, the familiar snappy voice washing a nostalgic wave over him he hadn’t expected. “It’s me, Weasel.”

A glass drops to the ground, rinkeling loud enough that Napoleon flinches. “Apollo, as I live and breathe,” Weasel says. “How is life on the side of light? Saved any damsels lately?”

“I could ask you the same, Detective Inspector, or have you been promoted again?” Napoleon says, a smile growing on his face. “I’m calling in what you owe me.”

There is a silence, and then a long sigh at the end of the line. “Fifteen years you wait to cash in, dragging me back into a mess right when I have my life in order. You’re a piece of work, darling.”

“Never said I wasn’t,” Napoleon says, not intending to apologize for it. “Did save your ass to get you there. Without me you’d be still rotting in that cellar, providing the mice with sustenance.”

“Sadly true,” Weasel agrees. “What do you need? I’m a man of my word.”

“I need information about an agent or asset going by зверь,” Napoleon says.

Weasel clicks his tongue. “Oh dear. I hope he doesn’t want you dead.”

Napoleon chuckles, remembering the feral eyes that had followed him through Berlin. “I’m very certain he’d like my head on a stick.”

“Well then,” Weasel says. “It has been nice knowing you.”

“That bad?” Napoleon wraps the telephone cord around his finger. “You should have more faith in me.”

“That bad,” Weasel says, in a tone that makes Napoleon shiver. “I’ll send you what you need, but loose this number. We’re even and I don’t want to be anywhere near that monster. I have to keep my kid safe, Apollo.”

“Send me the files and you’ll never hear of me again.”

Weasel laughs, but it sounds empty. “Let’s hope it’s not because the beast killed you.”

Napoleon hums, “Let’s hope.”

The files arrive days later, just before Sanders whisks him off to a quiet parc without any explanation for why they are there. Napoleon burned the list after he read it. Every name a life ended by one man. Pages upon pages. His opponent more an assassin than a spy. It explains a lot of things. It explains how when Napoleon has to fight him in the cramped space of a men’s toilet, he loses. If it weren't for the handler stepping in calmly, Napoleon would have been another name on that list.

“Don’t kill your partner on your first day.”

Your _partner._

It might have saved him that time, but considering the way the Beast is glaring at him, he’s going to end up in that file one way or another. This man is going to be the end of him. Napoleon smiles at the furious Russian. If he’s going to die anyway, he might as well have some fun with it.

The man flips a table beautifully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi yall! Hope you had a nice week! I think I got the outline down now, so I might put up a chapter count soon. If everything goes to plan, chapter 10 will be the last one. So we have some ways to go, but we're at the halfway point now :D 
> 
> This chapter also could be summarized with: Writer learns Napoleon Solo: it takes a long ass time because he's a tricky bastard. 
> 
> Hope you liked this one! Next up is Illya :D


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you brooke for the beta!

After Berlin everything changes.

The mission itself is fairly simple. It’s one of those Illya prefers. No team, which makes for the only freedom he’s allowed to have every once in a while: the privilege to make his own plans. After the debrief, Illya surveils the area until the CIA sends its agent; Napoleon Solo, a thief blackmailed into service. He’s as intelligent as he is American, which tones down the intelligence quite a bit.

Illya prepares for him. He assumes Solo is going to take the straightforward route and waltz into East Berlin through seemingly legal means. He must admit that the CIA has good forgers and know how to fake the right documents and put the right details into place, creating whole new people out of nothing. Going by the intel; Solo has a certain predilection for undercover work, and enough overconfidence to keep using the same strategy over and over. It seems to have worked in his favour until now. His records are stacked high with successes and clean missions. Thefts, mostly, so it’s no surprise the CIA send him in to steal the girl from her workplace.

So Illya makes sure every guard knows Solo’s face by heart, gives them clear instructions on how to contact him and where to place the bug. He studies the ways Solo could be planning to escape, fighting with local police for cooperation. If Solo were to try to drive out of Berlin, he’ll need the police force on his side. Another option could be by train, and he makes sure his picture is shown to all who work there. After Solo arrives, there will be no way out. The moment he steps into the GDR, he’s trapped.

If Solo is anywhere near a competent agent, he must have planned for something like this to happen. Prepared a safe-house in the city, to lie low at until everything tones down. Illya goes through the records, trying to find any recently purchased buildings around Miss Teller’s carshop. He pays the local kids to keep an eye out, a little tiny spy on every block. Eyes in every corner.

At first, Illya is right. He watches Solo walk through the walls of Germany wearing sunglasses and a shadow of a smug smile on his face. The guard handling him is one Illya had hoped for, his quick fingers hide the bug while he distracts the agent with a question. When Solo threatens to look before the guard is done, Illya steps out of the shadow, drawing the flicker of attention needed for the guard to finish. Illya has no intention of keeping his presence secret; he wants Solo to hurry, diverging from his original plans and making mistakes because of it.

Solo walks slowly, casually, but Illya knows how to read people like him by now, and this is the gait of a man who knows he’s being followed. Illya lets him walk, he doesn’t have to worry about losing him with the bug in place. He steps into his car, directs the driver to the next location, and places the headphones on his head, listening along while Solo introduces himself to Gaby Teller.

Everything goes to plan until Solo finds the bug midway his monologue. The line goes static and Illya curses, yelling at the driver to stop and, “Get out!” and takes over the wheel. Not a second later an old car backs out of the garage, and the hunt starts.

He’s surprised at first to see the girl driving, Solo presumably hidden in the back as the car window magically opens by itself. Illya ducks away from the shot, knowing it’s coming. The car speeds off, Illya barely following behind. When Teller cuts around corners and plays a dirty disappearing parking trick, Illya isn’t surprised anymore, he gnashes his teeth as he tries to avoid a collision with the wall, while also trying not to get shot.

This is not where the insanity ends.

They drive themselves into a wall. Two to be precise. Illya finds the car stuck between two buildings two meters above ground, the car window precisely lined up with the only window on that side of the building.

It’s then that Illya realises he’s not up against a spy with a plan. He’s running after a maniac who has his objective and will do _anything_ , however illogical and insane, to get her out. He’s been preparing for someone else, someone reasonable. He’ll never be able to prepare for Napoleon Solo.

His hunch is proven right when Solo jovially zip-lines over the Berlin wall with the girl in his arms. Illya follows him, only to be dropped into a minefield.

So Berlin is the first mission Illya has truly failed in years. The embarrassment that only adds onto Illya’s hatred of the cocky American who just escaped his grasp. Besides failing his main objective, his final predicament had left guards having to dig out mines for the rest of the night. Illya’s sure that if it weren’t for the girl, Oleg would have left him there to explode.

But then things change again. Solo walks into the men’s toilet and Illya takes his chance. He attacks. The fight is almost brutal, almost impressive, but fire burns through Illya’s veins and there are no tricks to be played here. Without the space or time to cheat, Solo’s weakness is obvious. He can fight, but he cannot _fight._ Illya takes him down. Illya will not fail this time. Solo grasps at Illya’s hands but he’s not strong enough, flailing as slowly the oxygen becomes too scarce to function.

Oleg steps inside the toilet and his impassive face morphs into disapproval.

While Illya is happy to have his hands around Solo’s throat, he’s less so when he’s ordered to let go. _Partners._ For the first time since Illya can remember, he feels the need to voice this disgruntlement to Oleg, and speaks up without thinking in the partially destroyed public toilet, after the Americans leave the room.

“I don’t think this is a good idea, Sir,” Illya says. The words taste sour in his mouth, as if they weren’t his to have. As if he stole them.

Oleg stops in his tracks, turns around slowly and raises a disapproving eyebrow. The silence seems to last for eternity until–

“Did I ask for your opinion on this matter, Agent Kuryakin?”

Illya’s stomach drops. He looks away and snaps his jaw shut, a tremble going through his body as he clenches his fists. “No, Sir,” he says between locked teeth. “Apologies, Sir.”

Oleg watches him for a moment with a passive expression, and Illya feels his gaze burning into his bones.

“Remember зверь, you already failed this mission once,” Oleg says finally, with a calm that Illya has learned not to trust. “Don’t make the same mistake twice. Do as you are told.”

Illya nods sharply. His cheek muscles twitch. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good,” Oleg says and finally the piercing gaze moves away. Oleg walks out, motioning for Illya to follow in a silent order.

Illya takes a silent breath, and follows without another word. The American must be contagious somehow, a disease of stupidity. But he has his orders, he’s not going to let Solo influence them. So Illya follows. He always follows.

After the debriefing, the handlers leave.

Solo is smiling like he’s won a little game, one Illya doesn’t know the rules of. The smugness rolls off him in waves. Illya glares at him, and suddenly the words stream out, flinging everything he can think of to put Solo back in his place. Solo replies with his own comments. In a companionable tone, he strips Illya bare and enlights an old rage Illya had almost forgotten.

Solo smiles again. The exact same smile. Illya wants to punch it off. If it weren’t for Oleg’s orders, it wouldn’t have been the table he’d taken his anger out on. _Don’t kill your partner on your first day,_ becomes harder by the second.

In a desperate need for distraction, Illya refocuses heavily on the mission, scrutinising every file on hand while they travel to Italy. He makes a truce with himself. He has a responsibility to his nation and the whole world to not let this go wrong. This is not a mission they can fail.

Solo’s snoring, his head smushed against the airplane window. Illya decides that even though they’re ordered to be a team – _partners_ – he’s not going to let the American fuck this up with his irresponsibility. He’s not going to be ordered around this time. He’s not going to be solely the weapon, the tool of execution. This is not the KGB: Solo is not a handler, or a senior officer. He’s not someone who controls him.

Illya nods to himself. He’s going to make sure they’ll succeed, no matter how many times he’ll have to fight for the right to do so.

Solo wakes up when they land, blinking bleary for a second until he catches Illya staring.

“Would you be sweet and grab my bag for me, Peril?” he says around a yawn, stretching his arms so that his shirt rides up. Illya looks away. “It’s in the compartment right above you”

Craning his head up, there is indeed a suitcase poking out. Illya takes a quick breath, stands, and stomps out of the airplane, not stopping as he bites out, “ _Nyet._ ”

He doesn’t hear Solo’s response. He doesn’t want to hear it. Adrenaline rushes through him as he follows their flight attendant to the taxi ready for them. Solo arrives a second later, dragging his unreasonably large suitcase behind him. The sight almost makes Illya smile, but he pushes it down just before Solo opens the door and slides inside.

“They sure don’t train you Reds manners, do they?”

Illya ignores him and gazes out of the window, watching the fields fly past as they drive away.

_They do_ , Illya thinks at Solo, who’s ignoring Illya in turn by starting a obnoxious conversation with their driver. _We are trained to serve, to be whatever they need. But you are not one of them, so you can’t tell me to do anything. You don’t have the right._

_–––_

Between a mission that could potentially destroy the world were they to fail, and a man that has the uncanny ability to annoy Illya with every breath, Illya has never before felt this free. Everything is different, dizzying, and Illya flounders for a way to deal with it. How to _be_ when every factor is nothing like he’s experienced before, hasn’t been trained for.

He’s alone with his confusion.

As a side effect of working with Americans, Oleg suddenly doesn’t demand debriefs every other day. Unwilling to upset the delicate diplomatic balance that makes this partnership possible. Without handlers interfering, they’re free to build their own plans on the intel and resources they’re granted, and with this autonomy, collaboration becomes possible.

Somehow, in the following days, the American becomes Solo becomes Cowboy. And ‘the girl’ becomes Gaby and becomes their chop-shop girl. She seems to generally disapprove of everything if it hasn’t to do with an engine or alcohol, and Illya is shocked to realise he’s becoming fond of her. He thought he’d lost the ability to do so years ago. This new-found weakness scares him so little he’s starting to worry about himself, right until she tackles him to the ground in a drunken stupor.

Gaby isn’t afraid of him. She treats him like he isn’t capable of hurting her every time they touch, and this _does_ terrify Illya. Because he knows what he is, he knows what he has done, and the thought of Gaby knowing that and losing her trust in him makes Illya sick.

Somehow things start to matter. Napoleon gives him a reason for frustration that doesn’t have to do with blood. When Napoleon declares things with his smug tone of voice, Illya _has_ to respond, has to argue, has to put the infuriating American back in his place. Arguing with Napoleon is suddenly important as anything, and Napoleon is always, always, wrong.

They expect him to have opinions, to protest. Even when Illya has nothing to say, Napoleon ends up dragging it out of him. Illya doesn’t know if it’s because he truly didn’t realise his objection until Napoleon teased and badgered, or if it’s something empty of meaning just to shut him up.

But in the end it doesn’t matter, Napoleon never listens anyway. He’s also not as incompetent as Illya had feared. Some of his abilities are even worthy of respect — though Illya will never voice that out loud, Cowboy’s ego is already several times larger than his head — and to Illya’s great surprise they actually work well together. They fit like puzzle pieces, sharing strengths and complimenting each other’s weaknesses. Illya can tone down Napoleon’s more ambitious ideas into something useable, and Napoleon can see beyond the limitations of Illya’s plans. Even Gaby brings her own flavour of quick thinking and well-placed dry comments when things get heated and circle in the direction of a screaming match.

Even though Illya sometimes wants to punch a wall, and Napoleon’s smile grows in gradual degrees of sharpness, they work.

Illya starts to realise that he doesn’t quite want this mission to end.

This thought scares him the most.

–––

Gaby meets Rudi alone tomorrow, and Illya drowns his concern into the cold logistics of a chess game. Or at least, he’d been successfully doing this until Napoleon steals a horse from the board.

“Solo,” Illya says threateningly, warning growling beneath his voice.

“What?” Napoleon says innocently, playing with the piece between his fingers. “Do you need something, Peril?”

Gaby looks up from her paper, folding a page just enough to glare at Napoleon.

“Oh, this old thing?” Napoleon says, and looks at the chess piece as if he’s surprised he has it. “My apologies, I didn’t know you were using it. I thought you were busy trying to burn a hole into the table with your eyes. I commend your determination but I’m afraid it won’t happen, my friend.”

“Give it back,” Illya says, holding out his hand. Napoleon moves from the wall and walking smoothly towards Illya. His fingers brush the palm of Illya’s hand and Illya’s eyes are drawn to the sensation despite himself. In a flash, the piece falls into his hand and Napoleon is close, smile blinding. Illya’s heart thuds. Napoleon grabs another white piece and Illya rises to push him away, but before he can, Napoleon sets it back onto the board with a sly grin.

“Checkmate, Peril,” Napoleon murmurs, his breath hot against Illya’s face. And then, in the blink of an eye, he’s gone again.

Illya’s heart is still pounding and a tremble builds in his chest, only growing with every step Napoleon takes away from him and spikes when Illya realises that Napoleon didn’t lie. Illya’s eyes widen as he takes in the play, unable to think of a way out of it.

Napoleon laughs in the background, presumably amused by the expression on Illya’s face, and Illya knows he has to leave. _Now._ Before he does something he’ll regret.

Through the roar of blood rushing in his ears, Illya doesn’t hear what Gaby is saying to Napoleon. He stands up and marches out of the room, into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. There, in the relative quiet, panic consumes the frustration, because his fists are trembling and his heart is beating too fast. He could have– Flashes of blood, injuries and death made by his hands blur into his vision and Illya has to cover his face until they pass.

Even after a long moment, the frustration still pulses within him. Napoleon’s laughter etched into his mind. Illya knows he shouldn’t be this angry about something so small, but he doesn’t know how not to be. The only thing he knows is that he doesn’t want to hurt Napoleon, no matter how annoying he is, no matter how frustrating he can be.

A sudden memory falls over him. Not one tinged with terror and guilt, but a memory older, deeper into his childhood. The same frustration, the same hot pulsing anger, but this time it’s Sasha’s face before him, tinged with disappointment, that causes the emotions to exist.

“Again, Ilysusha. I know you can do this, you just have to concentrate.”

“I am,” the young Illya snaps, and Illya can feel how consumed he was by his anger, how much he despised himself for not being able to do better. How much Sasha’s expression had hurt.

“You are not,” Sasha chides, and she taps him on the head. “You’re too deep in here to be.” She grabs him by the arm and turns Illya around, “Open up your chest and take a deep breath.”

Illya takes a breath along with the memory, now remembering the exercise as one he’d done countless of times as a child.

“Good, hold it for me. We count. 1 2 3 4 5 and now exhale, slowly.”

Illya pushes the breath out. _1 2 3 4 5 6._ He takes another breath, holds it as the memory goes away and Sasha’s voice disappears, and breathes out again. _1 2 3 4 5 6._

By the time his breath comes easy and his heart feels stable again, Illya’s sat down on the bed with his eyes closed. He comes back to himself a few moments later, and the sounds of the outside world start to trickle in again, slowly. The slight bit of rain playing a staccato piece on the hotel window, the low sounds of music pushing through the ceiling of a tenant below them, and Napoleon’s voice coming from behind the bedroom door.

“I’m going to get some croissants, Peril likes those. Do you want something?”

Gaby’s reply is too muffled to hear, but Napoleon talks over her within the second.

“–It’s not an apology when–“ Someone stands up, a chair scraping against floorboards.“You know what, never mind. You’re being annoying. I’m not getting you anything.”

A door closes shut right when Gaby yells, “Pretzels!”

Illya takes that as his cue to slink back into the living room, trying to get back to the sofa without anyone noticing.

But Gaby catches him at once, sitting in her chair with her legs folded beneath her. She sighs. Her face communicates _I know he’s an asshole but it’s Solo_ without having to utter a single word. It’s an expression she wears so often Illya could have read it from a mile away. Gaby opens her paper where she left off and says, “Don’t punch him when he gets back please. We’ll have to pay for the damages and these carpets are nightmares to get blood out of.”

Illya just grunts. He’s not sure how to say that he has no intention of hitting Napoleon, or to try to explain why he feels lighter than he’s felt in months, or years maybe, when he himself doesn’t understand. Illya doesn’t remember the last time he’s felt like this. But Gaby is already engrossed in some article so Illya is saved from having to say anything else. He sits back down on the chair by the chess table, intending to continue where Napoleon had interrupted him, and that’s when he notices it.

“He took the king.”

Gaby looks up from her paper with narrowed eyes. “What.”

“Solo took my king,” Illya says, still more surprised than anything else. “He stole the king and took it with him.”

“Are you serious,” Gaby snaps. It doesn’t sound like a question, but Illya nods anyway.

She throws a glare at the door as if to curse Napoleon for eternity, if he were to enter right at that moment. Then she heaves a sigh and stands up while exclaiming “Idioten.” She marches to the grand drawer beside her bed and digs through the bottom drawer, murmuring the occasional german phrase. Illya can’t fully place them, but he is able to understand their general meaning nonetheless. A minute later Gaby comes back carrying a large, heavy-looking box. A second chessboard with all the pieces slams onto the coffee table before Illya can offer to help.

“Don’t tell Solo about the second one,” Gaby orders, and buries back into her chair, now directing a warning glare at Illya. “And don’t kill him when he gets back. He has croissants.”

With that, she seems to be satisfied, and goes to read.

Illya takes the white king from the secret emergency board and sets it on the missing place. It’s lighter wood slightly mismatches the older pieces from his set. To Illya’s great surprise, it doesn’t bother him at all. None of it does. Illya takes a slow breath, but he feels no frustration running through him, not even a little. There is something else, something warmer. A wave of emotions ranging from bemusement to giddiness rushes through him and something clicks back into place into his chest. Napoleon stealing the king, right after he’d pushed Illya over the line, and executing a smooth escape out of the blast radius is such a Cowboy thing to do that something deep inside Illya wants to smile.

Illya shakes his head, trying to keep the smile from escaping, and starts playing, already thinking of ways to get Napoleon back without any blood spilled. He's never tried to bug his ties before, that could be something to try. Gaby looks up from her paper once, and Illya realises from her reaction that the smile escaped anyway, just a hint of it in the corner of his lips. She smiles back.

She betrays them the next day.

He should have known. Everything was too perfect. Everything was too good. Nothing like what he was used to. Nothing like what he deserved.

And now, he’s losing Napoleon too.

Illya runs. Illya _drives_. The tiny pulsing red dot that’s Napoleon’s location his only hope. Illya doesn’t know if he’s driving towards a body instead of a life. Napoleon could be taking his last breath right this second. The floodgates open. Illya bites on the inside of his cheek, overwhelmed by everything he thought he’d never be able to feel again. It _hurts._ Burns red hot and trembling and he feels so full of it. Almost unable to breathe around it. How can people live with this? How could he have lived without this? They thought they’d trained it out of him, but they hadn’t. They failed. Illya almost drowns in it, but pulls himself back. Focus on the mission. Focus on saving Napoleon. Focus on–

He can’t be faster. He might not save him. He might be too late. And now he knows. He _knows._

He can’t lose him.

Illya’s knuckles turn white round the wheel. Anger rushes through him, but it feels different than ever before. Desperate to save a life and destroy the one that put him in danger. Desperate to protect. It’s intoxicating and Illya doesn’t want to feel anything else. Illya wants to live in it, breathe in it. But for that Napoleon needs to stay alive.

He doesn’t lose Napoleon. Not yet

Illya finds him, bloody, broken and hurt, but smiling around a joke. Illya saves him, alive and breathing, and learns to breathe again.

Illya saves the one who made him realise the KGB hasn’t beaten out the whole of his heart, and is ordered to kill him the same day.

Oleg’s voice drags the beast back into his chest, growling and clawing out the last pieces that remained. Everything goes dark. On the other side of the helicopter, Illya sees Napoleon being ordered the exact same thing.

He should have known it would all end in blood anyway.

He just wasn’t prepared for this.

He’ll never be prepared for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay Illya! Oops for the angst! Anyway next chapter will be another 3pov chapter, and I think I'll be fine finishing it on time, but just in case: I want to post it in 1,5 weeks at the latest, so 11 april. Hope you liked this one!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long one this time! Thank you brooke for the beta, keeping up with me is a harsh task <3

Illya will be fine. Illya will be fine. The thought repeats ad-nauseum in her mind as she follows Alexander into the helicopter and the sea stretches underneath her. 

Everything is going perfectly. The scheme she’s been building alongside Waverly is finally put into motion has every piece locked into place. She feels the wheels turn underneath her skin as the island breaks out of the waves, the fort that holds her father standing tall in the onslaught. Her heart jumps up in her throat, but Alexander is watching her so she keeps her breathing controlled, hoping he can’t see her trembling hands from where he sits. 

The helicopter shocks as they land. Gaby grabs a railing tight, the cool iron pressing into her bones. She will see her father soon, for the first time since she learned how to say his name. She will see her father again after giving up thousands of times, before hope caught her again in her darkest nights. 

She will see her father, a man who’s smile she can’t remember but whose handwriting she knows better than her own. 

Alexander shakes her out of her thoughts, holding out an impatient hand. She wants to slap it away, spit in his face — how dare they take him, how dare they — but instead she smiles in thanks, takes his hand, and lets him lead her to solid ground. 

She only has to keep them friendly for another few hours, just enough to put the last parts into place and save not only her father, but the world. 

A row of guards greets her, along with Victoria’s sickly sweet smile. Beside her a man stands hunched into himself, his eyes tracing Gaby’s every move with widened eyes. 

Something small and sad cracks inside Gaby’s heart — _papa, papa, papa_ , — and she has to fight to keep it off her face. 

The man approaches her carefully and she doesn’t know him, but she does. 

She’s never had a photo of him that showed his face, her mother made sure of that. He’s always been ever changing to her. A collection of ideas, images and imaginations of people with different faces but always carrying the same title. Her father. The father she wouldn’t recognise. The father whose features are mere concepts in her mind, and genetic guesses in her face. Maybe they have the same nose, the same sharp jawline and the same smile. Or maybe she took after her mother too much for her to find his face in her own. 

Over the course of her life, her father has had as many faces as he had equations in his books. But now, seeing him smile hesitantly, all those images melt into one, and she recognises him. She _recognises_ him. 

“Papa,” Gaby whispers, despite herself. 

“Gaby.” His voice is rough, and Gaby wants to reach out, but she can’t with everyone around. 

“My princess,” he says, reverent. He looks tired, scared even, but not for himself but for her. She can’t allay his concerns while others listen, so she demands a moment of privacy, aware that Alexander looks over her shoulder as she speaks. 

She gives her father the plan, she gives him a belief he’s been missing, and he gives her a nod and a glint of hope in his eyes. Gaby couldn’t ask for more. 

While Napoleon and Illya saw her as a mere civilian, she’s been working on this moment for the duration of the mission. She’s rehearsed every step in her mind, the plan unfolding in front of her every night, practicing for every possibility, envisioning every eventuality until she felt certain she could handle this. She’s taken everything that she’s learned over the last few weeks and built around it. 

For all Waverly had trained her, it wasn’t comparable to working with two men who wear their job as a second skin. They gave her ways to navigate their field without knowing it, and Gaby intends to use everything she knows to save her father. She feels Illya’s strength in her shoulders and back, able to stand tall while terror and anger war for purchase in her chest. She feels Napoleon’s adaptability in the way she can switch strategies in the same breath, flow with the conversation in such a way she can manipulate it to what she needs without anyone knowing. And she feels herself too, the confidence she’s grown into over the weeks, as she supports her father into sabotage, plays dumb as she drops the supplies to the ground. 

But she isn’t enough. 

Despite everything she’s become, she isn’t good enough. Victoria is better. Everything goes horribly wrong and Gaby doesn’t know how to stop it. She’s left swallowed whole by the extent of her failure and the consequences that it will bring.

The guards throw her to the ground and slam the iron bars shut. One of them looks at his watch and smiles, showing his teeth in bloodthirsty delight. “17 minutes left. Tick tock tick tock, Miss Teller. 

Gaby claws at his face, reaching between the bars far enough to scratch deeply into his cheek. He flinches back and his smile makes way for cold fury, his hand on his gun. Gaby glares back without blinking. 

“15 minutes now,” the guard murmurs after the other left to stand in the hall. 

“I won’t make it quick for you,” he continues. “I’ll draw it out a bit. I’m sure Victoria wouldn’t mind. She left Solo with your Uncle, after all.”

His tone makes dread flow like cold ink though Gaby’s body, shivers rushing through her veins. Whatever the guard is implying, it can’t be anything good for Napoleon, and her fear must show in her face because the guard smiles again, his fury easily replaced with joy. 

“Oh, you don’t know? Rudi is another kind of monster, even worse than your delightful fiancé. He loves nothing more than causing pain. I think it’s the only thing that gets him off anymore. After the war, Victoria gave him a job as her personal torturer.” The guard lingers on the word, cherishing it. He takes a step forward, just out of Gaby’s reach, and continues with a low sultry voice. “Many men met Rudi on her commission, and none of them came out alive. Most remains too damaged to bury.” 

Gaby steps back to the wall, guilt choking her. Napoleon tortured and dead because of her, screaming because of her. She hadn’t known, she should have known. And now Illya— Illya is fine. Illya has to be fine. He has to save them all. 

And if he doesn’t, her betrayal won’t matter anymore, Gaby thinks darkly, because they’ll all be dead on a world destroyed by nuclear bombs. 

Times drags. The guard reminds her of her impending execution every couple of minutes. She tries not to listen, tries to think a way out of this, but nothing comes, no options. She’s trapped and every second brings her father in more danger. She feels powerless.

There are four minutes left when a loud bang echoes through the building. 

No. No. _No._

Gaby screams. 

A warning shot, it must be a warning shot—

The guard laughs heartily, his finger on his ear piece. “She shot him? Point blank? Beautiful. What do we do with the girl? Ah, a pity. Well if the boss says so.” 

Gaby slams herself against the iron bars. She needs to get out. She needs to save him. 

“Now, now, keep yourself whole. The boss wants you alive.” 

“You killed him,” Gaby chokes out. “You—“ 

“We sure did,” the guard interrupts her. “If you want to say your goodbyes, you’ll need to cooperate now. I can knock you out instead, your choice.” 

Gaby stills. She needs to see him, be sure as she can be that this isn’t another trick. That they’re not trying to persuade her to give up once again while they keep him chained in a basement working on another, bigger bomb. She allows the guard to cuff her, and follows quietly into the workplace where—

Gaby’s knees almost buckle beneath her, but she keeps up right, rushing to her father’s side. He’s sprawled out in a pool of his own blood. A perfectly round hole mars his forehead and brain-matter is splattered on the floor. 

His chest is still, robotic, stolen of life, and his eyes are unseeing. The endless stare is what makes Gaby believe, and while everything crumbles inside of her, she doesn’t shake as she kneels beside him, her dress soaking up blood. Her fingers are steady as she closes his eyes one by one. He doesn’t look peaceful, his face frozen in fear as the blood pools across his cheeks.

“I’m sorry, papa,” Gaby murmurs, her voice monotone and as empty of life as her father. “I’m sorry. I should have found you earlier. I should have been better. I should have saved you.” Gaby swallows the tension building in her throat, keeps her expression tight, but she means every word as if it’s ripped out of her. “I’m so sorry, papa, I should have saved you.”

Someone yanks at her cuffs, and Gaby almost falls face first on the ground. 

“That’s long enough,” Alexander spits. “We’re going.” 

The guard steps closer and points to an entrance Gaby can’t see. “Your car is ready for you, sir.” 

“Good,” Alexander says, and shoots the guard dead.

In the empty crevices of Gaby’s mind, a pang of satisfaction makes itself known before being drowned into nothing again. 

Alexander aims his gun at her and orders, “Get up.” 

“Shoot me,” Gaby wants to say, but she can’t find her voice. She allows herself to be dragged away, a pawn in a game she doesn’t care about anymore. Survival instinct scratches inside of her but her mind is too numb for it to take hold. She doesn’t care in this moment if she lives or dies. There is no reason to. Everything is filled with failure, with the vision of her father in his own blood. There is nothing pulling her out of the darkness, until she hears the roar of an engine behind her. 

She sees Napoleon in the rear-view mirror, and relief breaks her out. Rudi didn’t— She can’t finish the thought before Illya bursts out of the forest, his motorcycle skidding over the dirt road. Oh thank god. They’re both fine, and they’re trying to rescue her despite her betrayal. 

Or they want the missile and don’t give a damn about her, but Gaby can’t see that in the way Napoleon yells for her, or the way Illya’s face brims with the most anger she’s seen on him, eying the cuffs as if to light them on fire with his mind. 

The car flips over, shrill ringing in her ear makes her almost lose consciousness, but she pushes herself awake because Napoleon is in danger and she can’t lose someone else today. She can’t fail again. 

She does. Alexander slams her away with ease, but it’s enough for Illya to save them both, just like she believed he would. Like she trusted he would. 

Victoria plays them again, and this time it’s Napoleon, with his impeccable memory and lethal charm, that saves them this time, and saves the world with it. 

Gaby wants to feel the joy exploding in the communication cabin, in Waverly’s relieved smile, but nothing touches her and she finds that she prefers it that way. She doesn’t deserve celebration. 

She should have saved him. 

 

\---

To say that the flight back to the mainland is tense is a gross understatement. Napoleon is glad that no one is using the microphones as the helicopter cuts through the air. No conversation would go well, while they all come to terms with the end of the mission, and the mission itself. 

Waverly is silently making notes in the corner. The paper rustles in the wind and Napoleon’s hands ache vaguely for the pen and paper— something to do with the nervous energy running through his body. Next to Waverly, Gaby sits with her hands on her lap, her nails digging into the fabric of her dress. She casts them the occasional glance as her expression flickers between something shadowing apologetic and a tense blank slate that Napoleon recognises all to well. He ignores her, he has no space for her sorrow and the memories it digs up. 

Because Napoleon is too preoccupied with the disk burning into his thigh, hidden in one of the many pockets of his tactical pants. Only a thin piece of fabric and few feet of crammed space separates it from the man who’s motivated to kill over it. Illya’s eyes are glazed over, his head leaning against the cold plastic wall, shaking with the force of flight. Slow breaths that seem almost too regular push and pull from his chest. He seems to be calming down, riding the last waves of adrenaline until they fades. He looks tired, emotionally and physically, as if he needs a few days to recover from the stress of such a close call in all directions. 

Napoleon isn’t fooled. There only has to be one wrong sigh, one guilty look, and Illya will awaken the beast again. The beast who is able to watch a man burn to death with a placid expression on his face, lips stretching around a joke. Able to throw a motorcycle off his chest after crashing, able to kill in a moment’s notice—

All to save him. To save Napoleon. 

Goosebumps rush over his skin as his body remembers the electricity and Rudi’s delighted smile, painting hellish shadows in the pale rotating light. Napoleon had really believed he would die there, and had found himself wishing it had been Illya. At least he’d been quick about it, merciful, compared to the monster that was Rudi. 

Turns out his wish was heard once again. Illya rescued him from Rudi, but if Napoleon fails to protect himself, he’ll be on the receiving end of Illya’s wrath nonetheless. A name on the list instead of a photo in an album. Napoleon prefers the first to the latter, and tries to push this thought to the forefront of his mind, tries to believe in it. It's better this way. _It’s better this way._

It doesn’t work. 

He could fight it. He could grab his gun and shoot Illya now, dead before he knows it. Napoleon feels sick. He doesn’t move, tensing his hands around the iron bench. Fear pulses through him, fear of the end, fear of his last breath. He could put stop to it now, but he’s frozen. He can’t make the choice. He can’t decide whether living with Illya’s death on his hands for the rest of his life is a life worth saving.

But that’s not true; he has made that decision a long time ago. 

Bile rises up Napoleon’s throat and he doesn’t know why because he had expected this, prepared for it even. He had made peace with it the very same day they became partners. It’s only his own stupidity that lead him to forget it, lured in with half-repressed smiles and snappish replies that grew an undeserved fond undertone as the weeks passed. It doesn’t matter that it was different for a while, better than Napoleon thought possible. It doesn’t matter how his whole body had instantly let go of all fear the moment Illya stepped into Rudi’s chamber. 

It doesn’t matter how relief had healed him, dampening the pain and awakening a strange desperation to fall forward and press his face into Illya’s shoulder and just breathe. It doesn’t matter that Illya might have allowed him to, might have _held_ him, because at the same time he’d been ready to kill him where he stood. 

It all never meant anything. It never does, and Napoleon should have known better. Maybe he deserves it, Illya pulling the trigger, after being stupid enough to _believe._

He knows since long ago how soft smiles, companionable evenings and ‘trust-you-with-my-life’’s only draws in the tendrils of fate, eager to crush his happiness into dust. There is no reason at all to expect this to go any different. No reason at all. Not even Illya. Especially not Illya. 

Illya catches a flicker of Napoleon’s gaze and he comes back from wherever he was. His brows furrowed in the shape of a question, one Napoleon wishes he couldn’t read. _Are you okay?_

Napoleon closes his eyes and nods a silent lie, unable to bear more of Illya’s face as it grows into a concerned frown. It has to be fake. A farce to insure false comfort. Don’t scare the mark before you’re ready to pounce. 

Maybe he doesn’t know yet about the disk in Napoleon’s pocket but he should be suspecting something, preparing plans in the back of his mind to catch him off guard. He doesn’t mean it. He doesn’t care about Napoleon. He never has. He couldn’t, for the same reason Napoleon shouldn’t care for him. It’s not for them. He never meant any of it. 

But somehow, despite everything, Napoleon can’t get himself to believe it. He’s already lost, fallen, failed once again. Napoleon snaps his eyes open, driven by a sudden greed, desperate to take in every second he has left. Illya isn’t looking at him anymore and Napoleon pushes the disappointment away. It’s enough to see him be human for another little while. Just until Oleg gets through him and the game is up and broken. Illya frowns, clenching his fist in his lap and then rubbing over the wrist where his father’s watch used to be. He freezes mid motion, before heaving a sigh. 

Napoleon watches the sequence of emotions passing through his face with bated breath, feeling like he’s intruding but too mesmerised to look away. Confusion, realisation and remembrance, frustration but no anger following it, only sorrow and recognition and maybe a hint of grief. 

Napoleon has seen Illya do this before, but never so blatant, never so desperate for comfort. It makes Napoleon want to go over there and wrap his hand around Illya’s wrist, if he thought that would bring any comfort at all. The watch is what Illya wants. The watch is what he needs. 

Oh. 

Napoleon lets his eyes drop to the ground, keeping his face blank as a fragile and idiotic plan starts to form in his head. He has no reason to believe it will work — but he has so many reasons and he doesn’t dare to believe in them because they can’t be true, it never has been true before — but that doesn’t mean he can’t try. Napoleon squashes the hope welling up inside him, but it rises again when Illya draws his attention with a gentle hand on his shoulder. The heat burns through Napoleon’s skin and wraps around his lungs, intoxicating with sweet fear; an impossible possibility. 

“We’re here, Cowboy,” Illya says gently, softly, and it breaks Napoleon’s resolve, if he had any left. “You need help to walk?” 

Napoleon shakes his head — Illya holding him, his hands on his waist and a shoulder wrapped around his shoulder— No. He can’t do that. Not now. “I’m good, Peril. I’ve had worse.” 

It isn’t a lie. It makes Illya’s lips thin unhappily, but he doesn’t insist. When he leaves the compartment, Napoleon sags against the wall to recollect himself. The hope brims over without control and Napoleon lets it, unable to do anything else. 

Time becomes slow and blurry, every step a tick closer to an uncertain end, a last stand off. Napoleon does not run. He follows the bellboy mindlessly, bids him his thanks without remembering the words, and enters his room. There, a waft of air from the open window blows into his face, and Napoleon is momentarily puzzled by a foul smell until he realises it’s himself. His clothes are burned and cut at places, blood is caked on his forehead and underneath his nails, as his body tires aches become more vocal, and Napoleon has to grit his teeth to get into the shower. He avoids his reflection in the mirror, knowing deep inside that his face will show him more than he wants to know about the tense pain in his chest. The only pain not tracing back to injury— a physical one, that is. 

Napoleon moves into the stream before the water warms, the ice cold droplets a welcome distraction while the excesses of the day wash off of his skin. Dirt pools around his feet and Napoleon watches it drain away, while the droplets become steaming and start to almost burn him. Napoleon lets it, taking the occasional breath until dousing his head under again. His arms are too tired to grab shampoo and fix his hair, but a sudden — idiotic — thought spurs him into action nonetheless. Maybe looking like he’s not touched by the events of the day will help Illya see reason, or tempt him in another way. Napoleon snorts, trying to push the idea into a bitter amusement, instead of the foolish hope his mind allows itself when it’s too exhausted to control.

And as seems to be a theme of the day, his attempt at pretending does not hold water. Thoughts steam in and out of focus with the same ferocity as a river’s current. Unable to stop the onslaught, Napoleon gives in, presses his head against the cool tiled walls while he allows himself to explore all potentialities, all fevered imaginations on how the next hour might go. 

The worst case fills his mind's eye, Illya could shoot him the moment he steps out of the shower, unable to say a word in an attempt to salvage the situation. Napoleon shivers and feels for another possibility, something lighter, and he imagines Illya walking into the room, announcing that he’s on the run from the KGB and asks Napoleon to join him, to be partners in freedom instead of on the leash. His imaginations run further, deeper, a fantasy of a life unfolding before him with shared safe-houses and a warm smile to wake up too. Napoleon turns the shower to cold with defiance, shocking himself back to reality

Another possibility voices. He could just give the disk to Illya. Something sick inside him likes the idea of Illya being thankful and in his debt, of having a bargaining chip to demand what— loyalty? Mercy? A place in his life? 

Napoleon might hate his own nation and doesn’t care about the state of the world as long he’s somewhere he feels whole. But this is not the case for Illya. Even if he’d accept the disk without conflict, the traitorous action would disgust him. Napoleon would be filth in his eyes, and Napoleon doesn’t know what is more selfish, having the idea in the first place, or disregarding it to avoid Illya’s expression turn into revulsion and distaste. 

Napoleon sighs, he turns up the heat a little again when his toes start to become blue. There are truly only two ways this can go. Either Illya’s files are the truth of him after all, and he will stay loyal to his handlers no matter who he’s ordered to kill. Or something has changed in between Berlin and now, which allows him to defy orders, without destroying himself and his core principles. 

Napoleon had gotten the impression over the last few weeks that he’d been learning Illya, as Illya had been learning himself. As if the distance from his motherland allowed him to rediscover who he was and what he wanted. Napoleon doesn’t know if it will be enough to save his life, but maybe there is more to it than a few weeks of freedom. His mind provides him happily with the evidence, all too eager to fill him with the delusional idea that something good might come out of this instead of death. 

Because Illya doesn’t kill if he doesn’t have to. Napoleon had started to notice early on. The Kiss had been his first tip-off, but the assault on the island confirmed his hunch. All precise shots, aimed for extremities or sides, debilitating but not necessarily fatal. Close enough to claim luck had played into the direction of the bullet, but Napoleon has seen Illya’s skill, and there is not enough space for luck to play in. 

Napoleon wonders how many people Illya has saved over the years by pretending to be a worse shot than he is. How many people he had to kill anyway, unable to spare their lives in the face of a direct order. How many he regrets. 

Napoleon braces his hands against the wall as it all falls into place with finality. Illya doesn’t want to kill. He might even detest it. He avoids it every way he can. 

No one would have thought that from his track record. All of a sudden the list falls into another light, and Napoleon is sick to his stomach, as each and every name becomes another knife through Illya’s heart. How does anyone survive such a burden? How trapped is Illya, that he feels like he has no other choice but to comply? Flashes of Illya’s face after an anger outburst make Napoleon dizzy. The fear and the guilt, his concern of having hurt or frightened Gaby. The emotions flicker through his expression in a split second, until they’re pushed down by a placid, robotic, semblance of neutrality, while his tense fists tell tales of the war brewing behind the mask. 

That is not the face of a killer, that is the face of someone who lost control a long time ago. 

Napoleon shuts the shower off and takes a ragged breath. He goes through the motions of drying and dressing and tries not to think, not to feel anything until—

A guttural growl sounds from the room below him, followed by crashes and glass breaking. Illya knows. Napoleon tightens his fingers around the watch in his pocket, very aware that this isn’t about saving himself anymore. Not solely. Not primarily. This is about saving Illya, too. 

 

\---

His watch is snug around his wrist and the world rights itself again, the whole paradigm shifts away from chaos to stability. Illya feels centred. Illya feels awake. Illya feels— a growing sense of debilitating terror on how close he came to— 

He almost— 

Napoleon is back to packing, his body language open and tilted towards Illya, as if to grant a clear line of sight; the security that Napoleon isn’t going to grab a gun now that his guard is down. Illya wants to shout suddenly. No one should be this trusting — this _gentle —_ after someone came so close to killing them. Napoleon should not be this kind after knowing how able Illya is to murder for orders. Napoleon should be running. Napoleon should be calling in the forces and locking him up. 

(And Illya would go. Illya would drop to his knees, put his hands behind his back and lower his head as he waits for the click of cuffs. It’s the least he could do.) 

But Napoleon doesn’t. He stays, lingering, unnecessarily tugging at a folded shirt in his suitcase. All the while the disk is still on the bed, almost innocently, and Illya wants to grab it and throw it out of the window. He would have, but he doesn’t want to give Napoleon any reason to believe he’s changed his mind. 

Napoleon is humming something, seeming to be in a relaxed mood, and Illya doesn’t understand him, doesn’t understand how he deserves any of this. He stares at the disk until he’s sure the next words out of his mouth won’t be pleading Napoleon for forgiveness, or worse, asking him why he doesn’t just shoot him and run. 

But before Illya can say anything, Napoleon turns around and catches him staring. 

“The question now is what we’ll do with that thing.”

Illya straightens in reflex and tenses, afraid of the suspicion Napoleon’s face must portray. But there is nothing safe for a thoughtful frown. His stance holds ease, his hand in a jacket pocket and the other on the drawer next to him, leaning against it as if he’s posing for a painting. He raises an eyebrow when Illya doesn’t respond for too long, and Illya realises that he meant the question as it is. He wants to know what Illya thinks. 

With sudden inspiration Illya reaches into his back pocket and grabs his lighter, realising his mistake a second too late. He bites back an apology as he opens his palm to show Napoleon that he doesn’t have a weapon, but it’s unnecessary. Napoleon didn’t even go for his gun. 

Napoleon grins instead and steals the lighter with a quick flash of his hand; no hesitation. Illya doesn’t remember to flinch, too distracted by the delight in Napoleon’s face as he watches the flame with bright fascination. “You have good ideas sometimes, Peril.” 

Illya doesn’t understand him, doesn’t understand how he could be causing joy minutes after the beast threatened his life. But he doesn’t have to understand to see the mercy in Napoleon’s actions, and despite knowing better, Illya can’t resist Napoleon’s generosity. He doesn’t deserve it, but he can’t refuse it, can’t protest while his whole body aches for what Napoleon gives him. 

Illya rolls his eyes belatedly at Napoleon’s barb, because he doesn’t know how to thank Napoleon without falling apart. 

Napoleon’s eyes snap to his, the flame reflecting within as they soften. His grin falls into a smile, small and a little hesitant, but genuine. Illya hasn’t seen it on him before and he never wants it to end. 

Napoleon holds the lighter out between them and motions with a tilt of his head for Illya to take it. “Come on, Peril. Let’s burn some nuclear missile plans. I have exactly what we need for this occasion.”

Illya takes the offer as it’s meant and smiles, gratitude seeping out and he knows Napoleon can see it, but he finds that he wants him to. He wants him to know at least that. 

Napoleon opens the champagne with perfect timing, the pop coinciding with the exact moment the tape lights up in flames. 

Illya has exactly one moment to falter between cherishing this with Napoleon and mourning the impending termination of their working relationship, before Waverly crashes the party. 

Napoleon groans upon hearing the news, and Illya does his best to match his demeanour, but inside— inside, he’s flying. This, whatever this is, is the best thing that’s ever happened to him, and it isn’t over yet. 

After leaving Italy, Waverly explains how he’s been trying to set up an international taskforce for years now and had almost all the pieces in place except for a set of competent field agents. “Well,” he had added with a distracted smile, “until you three came along, of course. 

He leads them to what will become the core of their operations, a small city in Switzerland, something Illya should’ve foreseen They’re giving a tour of their facilities, everything they need in a small classical building that seems to be a hotel, but actually are the UNCLE’s task force housing units. 

“It seemed more tidy, that way,” Waverly explains to them. “Excuse the trite comparison, but like a school camp is meant to build friendships through proximity, this will hopefully extend the same effect. Each will have their own rooms with ample space to take a breather from humanity, but the cafeteria, most living spaces and the gym are all shared. There are cooks serving the healthiest of meals, checked for poison and what not. And we even added a medical facility, drawn from my personal experience that it’s easier to persuade an agent to go for a check up if the nurse is knocking on his door.

“It is my intention that you’ll be able to trust everyone working for and with you, from the investigators, internal affairs, to the technicians. You’ll put your life on the line and I think that knowing the people responsible for keeping you safe is mutually beneficial for all involved.” 

Napoleon raises his eyebrows and Illya prepares for whatever remark he will make. 

“And where will you stay, Sir?” 

Waverly smiles placidly, as if he doesn’t hear the challenge in Napoleon’s voice and merely finds the question to be appropriate. “Room 106. Now, gentlemen, Miss Teller, I must be going. Errands to run. Make yourself at home— Oh, Kuryakin, I’d like to see you in my office tomorrow morning. Someone will pick you up after breakfast.” 

Illya nods, not sure what to expect. When Oleg ordered him into his office, it meant he’d done something very wrong, but he can’t think of anything that might cause a dispute between Italy and now. Unless Waverly changed his mind about him being on the team. 

“Don’t worry Agent Kuryakin,” Waverly adds reassuringly. “Nothing grave, just a bit of business we need to sort out.” 

Waverly leaves with a hurried goodbye, and Illya tries to put thoughts of the meeting out of his mind. He follows Napoleon and Gaby as they explore the hotel and drop of their bags. Waverly didn’t over sell anything, the facilities practical but grandiose in their minimalism. Though unknown to them, the halls and places are touched with life, little pieces of people already living there before them. Their rooms are clean and comfortable, and there is even a chess table in the corner of Illya’s room. 

Gaby glows when she finds the workshops and Napoleon’s surprise seems genuine when he takes in the extent of the library, and they all repress their awe while stepping into the gym. They end up swimming in the pool and Illya floats around in the cool water, almost regretful that they won’t spend more than a few weeks a year in this building, somehow it already feels more like a home he’s ever had. Napoleon surfaces beside him, slapping water into his face. Illya splutters and sends a wave back. 

Gaby cackles from the other side of the pool, stopped mid stroke to roll her eyes at the commotion. “Is this what the great powers of the world have come too? A water fight?” 

Napoleon grins, “You hear her, Peril? This means war.” 

A second later, Illya’s pushed down under, air escaping him in a series of bubbles as a surprised laugh releases from his chest. He fights for purchase and pulls Napoleon under with him, wrestling until they’re both desperate for breath. 

By the time they’re all too exhausted to raise a hand, they shuffle their way into the cafeteria. Where suddenly they’re being introduced to every person that notices them, too many names for Illya to keep track of, but he can’t help but feeling welcomed into the group, just like Waverly intended. 

Later, when Illya stares at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to come, the coming conversation with Waverly pushes the pleasant echo of the day to the wayside. He falls asleep hoping that Waverly won’t take this from him just before it started. It would be cruel to experience what he could have had, only to be sent back to Russia again. 

Breakfast passes quietly, with the exception of Gaby. Napoleon joins him in silently eating, and Illya gets the feeling that he’s as shell shocked by the situation as he is. They’re not used to this as a work environment. Theirs is a life of solitude. Gaby doesn’t seem to be bothered by their sullen silence, already greeting people by name and making connections before Illya has the time to blink. She takes to it so easily that Illya has to stop and think he didn’t accidentally sleep for a month instead of a night, but then he remembers that Gaby has met some of these people before. She’s been working with Waverly long before they knew her true colours. Illya takes another tasteless bite from his pancake, scolding himself for forgetting. 

One of the people Gaby draws to their table turns out to be Illya’s driver for the morning. 

“Don’t worry about it,” she says to him, motioning animatedly with her fork. “He does this all the time, certainly with people who’ve worked with other agencies before. You know, updating you on the rules and such.” 

Illya looks away and nods. Every time someone tells him not to worry it feels like another stone is dropped into his stomach. He pushes his plate away, not hungry anymore. 

“It’s Solo, right?” she continues, pointing her fork in Napoleon’s direction. “You better come with us. He’ll want to talk to you too. Better be in the area already. You can walk around the city centre in the meantime, it’s really nice this time of year.” 

“With pleasure,” Napoleon replies, along with a shiny smile. The woman blushes slightly, but Illya can see that Napoleon’s heart isn’t in it.

“Okay. Let’s go.” 

The woman keeps talking as they drive, but Illya tunes her out, looking instead out the window as the city flows around them. She wasn’t lying about the centre. Thin calm roads lined with cherry trees in bloom, parks filled with plants and people, a lively river coursing along the main shopping street. Groups of people eat breakfast on the terraces, smiling in the sun, and the whole setting seems a little strange for an international task force that deals with the greatest evils of humanity. 

“They’ll never know about what we do, what we deal with,” Napoleon murmurs, arriving at the same thought. “They shouldn’t.” 

Illya shrugs, agreeing but not finding the motivation to do so. The contrast weighs heavily on him, leaving him wondering why he isn’t one of those people, the ones who don’t have to know. 

Napoleon follows their driver’s advice, and Illya has to force himself not to watch Napoleon walk away, sunlight shimmering around him as he disappears around a corner. 

The contrasting worlds only worsen when Illya realises where they’re standing. First he disregards it, expecting to be lead elsewhere, but then Waverly steps out of the flower shop, waving him in. 

“Come, Kuryakin. I have tea in my office, we can’t let it go cold.” 

A bell chimes when Illya walks through the door, and immediately he’s overwhelmed by the colours and smells around him. The shop is circular, rows and rows of pots line the walls with flowers stacked to the ceiling, neatly organized by colour and kind. A centrepiece breaks up the space, a great marble vase with a small cherry blossom tree growing out of the middle. It’s branches feather out over the ceiling, where light blue patterned bricks and the pink flowers form a nice equilibrium. Illya follows Waverly deeper into the shop, and a woman, hands deep in a bucket of dirt, greets them with a smile. Two other women look up from their work, sitting side by side behind an oak table as they sort sunflowers and large daisies into beautiful arrangements. 

“Kuryakin, let me introduce you to Aster, Lavender, and Rose,” Waverly says, motioning toward the women. 

Illya nods in greeting, meaning to compliment their store but before he can do so, he realises they’re all armed. It wouldn’t be visible for someone without his training, but underneath their overalls, gun holsters are just visible. Illya swallows his comments and instead tilts his head in what he hopes to be respectful, not sure of their position in the agency and unwilling to tread on any toes. With how everything else has gone today, he wouldn’t be surprised if Waverly put a high ranking officer to tend flowers in the front. 

“We’ll just go through,” Waverly continues, “Have a nice day.” 

One of the women, almost a girl in Illya’s eyes, waves while specs of dirt fall off her hands, and says, “Don’t forget the donuts you promised, Sir.” 

“I wouldn’t dare.” Waverly chuckles, and walks around a corner. Illya follows him up a set of stairs and through a series of doors. The homely details start to fall away into clean white walls and dark tiles echoing beneath their feet. The hallway widens as they reach the last door, a great iron monstrosity with a tiny screen off to the side. Waverly grabs a keycard out of his pocket and holds it before the screen, where a small red light starts to blink until it turns green. 

“You’ll get one of those after we’re done,” Waverly says, almost inaudible over the roar of machinery turning behind the door. Illya gets the impression that even Napoleon wouldn’t be able to crack this one. 

The door unlocks with a final resounding slam, and then there is silence until Waverly pushes the door open with a single nudge. The iron gives way easily, sliding open and revealing the room behind. An office’s lobby. 

The front desk is manned by a secretary who gives them a dismissive glance before continuing with her work. A water-feature decorates the wall behind her. The water trickles down like a small waterfall over an inscription carved into the stone, _UNCLE,_ where it drops into a shallow basin. The stream continues underneath glass tiles cutting through the dark marble floor, and Illya walks over the indoor river with fascination. Various tropical plants line the edges, with a few arrangements in the corners of the room and one on the desk, clearly on the courtesy of the women working below. 

“The people you just met are three members of our security team,” Waverly says, “I’m sure you’ll get to know them better over the next few days. Rose, the one getting her hands dirty, is our second in command.” 

Illya nods, mentally calibrating his impression of what seemed to be a 20 year old girl as his senior, and thinks to ask, “Who’s the first in command?” 

“I am.” 

The secretary, once inconspicuous, now stands up to full height and steps away from the desk. She makes her way towards Illya in a few long strides on high heels that look like they could function as weapons. She holds out a hand. 

Illya shakes it, taking in the woman now that her demeanour has dropped her cover and her dark skin and shaved head make her look more capable than anyone Illya remembers meeting. She smiles, or it’s more accurate to say that her lips tug sideways and one cheek dimples indulgently, a picture of polite engagement, and Illya is awed to feel small in her presence. “Pleasure to meet you, Agent Kuryakin,” she says, her vowels dropping in and out of focus the same way Waverly has. “Welcome to UNCLE.” She drops his hand after a firm shake and redirects her attention to Waverly, who’s watching the scene with serene amusement. “I imagine you’ll be able to find your way, Mister Waverly, I have some business to attend to.” 

Waverly nods quickly. “Of course, Miss Moss, I didn’t mean to interrupt. Come along, Illya, let the good soldier get back to it.” 

Illya follows without protest, sure from the look in Moss’s eyes that ‘soldier’ isn’t a mere nickname. She has a sense of steel behind her gallant expression that only can be caused by the conflicts of war. While Illya is led through the maze that turns out to be the UNCLE headquarters, he finds himself wondering what battles she has fought, and what battles he — they — will fight alongside her. 

Waverly’s office is at the end of an open hallway, doubling as a balcony that overlooks the command centre. The large room looks out onto an inner courtyard through tall windows that Illya assumes are bulletproof. 

“My apologies for the disarray,” Waverly says as they enter his office, stepping around the boxes and stacks of paper strewn on the floor. “I can’t seem to keep track of everything in its place, so nothing has a place at all. You can just put that to the side, yes, and sit down. Would you like a biscuit?” 

Illya grabs the box on the chair and sets it on the floor, and takes a look around the blank office space. It’s very modest compared to his commanders at home, with their regal bureaus and bookshelves overflowing with literature they’ll never read. His knees knock together as he fits himself in the small chair, hunched over a bit. The walls are empty and none of the previous modern touches have carried into the space, as they did in the rest of the building. It almost seems like Waverly just moved in here a day ago, and hasn’t yet gotten around to organising his office for work. 

Waverly follows his gaze, and shakes his head. “It’s a bit bleak, isn’t it? I agree. I just don’t have the time to peruse an antiques market like I ought to. I should ask Napoleon about that, he seems to be someone who knows about such things.” 

Illya hums in agreement, twining his fingers together as he waits for Waverly’s point. His remarks over their journey here have dampened his fears a little, but there is still a hint of dread tight in is chest. The unknown quantity of the situation causing him to tense up without his intention. 

Waverly smiles as if he’s sorry for causing Illya stress and clasps his hands together. “Let’s not beat around the bush. I had the fortune of convincing Oleg on the necessity of complete clarity, and I don’t have to tell you how much of a challenge it is to convince a spy of being honest to another spy. But he kept to his word, and I’ve received the full extent of your records, as to have a good sense of your strengths and weaknesses. This, of course, will help tremendously in the following missions.” 

Illya swallows, the tension falls into his stomach and his hands tighten of their own accord. If Waverly has his full history, then— 

Waverly flicks through the file before him, continuing as he nods to himself. “It’s very impressive of course, you have great scores and surprisingly colourful recommendations for Soviet standards. It gave me many reasons to expect you to be a perfect fit for what I envision of this task force, except for one part.” 

Waverly reaches over to the side of his desk and grabs a stack of paper that laid between a cup of old coffee and a set of tapes. “This is known as The List in various places. Other people call them the Beast’s legacy. I know it as your mission records.”

Illya lets his gaze drop to the ground, shame bursting through him. He’d known that Oleg would learn about his past, but he never expected to have to talk about it like this. In Russia it was merely whispered, or suggested through figure of speech. Even the agents he worked with never had the clearance to know about the true extent of his successes— assassinations. 

Murders. 

“Kuryakin,” Waverly says, and Illya’s head snaps up. 

Waverly places a hand on the stack and his expression is as grave. “This is not the way I run my missions, my task force, or my life. If you want to work for us, you’ll need to do away with how the KGB sees casualties. You’ll need to avoid excessive force wherever necessary. Only in the most serious of circumstances deadly force will be acceptable. Paperwork must be done for these occasions, and no one wants to do paperwork. I’ll explain more about why in a moment, but first I need to know if you’ll have any problems following these guidelines.” 

“No,” Illya says, almost too quickly, stumbling over the word. He gathers himself in a deep breath and says, “No, sir.” 

Waverly looks at him for a moment and then a smile grows on his face. “That is exactly what I wanted to hear. I didn’t want you to get the wrong impression with the Vinceguerra situation, you see. Needs must, but I’d rather not end another mission quite so explosively. We need to keep a low profile, keep the criminals unaware of our activity. The more people we catch alive, the easier it will be to trace the web back to another, greater source. These people don’t hold loyalty above survival in many cases, and everyone knows everyone. The dark underbelly of the world is a tightly knit community, one we wish to see demolished.” 

Illya straightens in his seat. “I understand, sir.” 

Waverly takes a sip of his tea before putting it down on the stack of records, like he already forgot their importance. “I’m very glad you do, Kuryakin. Don’t forget your tea.” 

Illya takes his cup in his hands, and drinks without tasting anything. Waverly’s words repeat in his mind, directions he never thought he would hear. 

Avoiding excessive force a strange but welcome concept. For the KGB, casualties had been just another chess piece in their game of power. The elimination of an entire enemy compound had been a warning against anyone who dared to think about rebellion. _Keep quiet and obey,_ it said, _you know who we will send after you if you don’t._

Illya had spend the majority of his life being a threat, and the spilling of blood was maintaining that identity, his weapon hood. If people were terrified of him, it meant he did well. If he spared a life, disciplinary action could be waiting when he got home. Oleg had been open about his perspective. He had wanted Illya to act without thinking, and deciding who lived and died wasn’t a power he had been allowed. But Waverly grants him this. Waverly expects him to use his judgement, with the added notion that less destruction is the positive outcome. 

Illya feels like he can breathe more freely than he’s ever done before. A deep ache latched around his spine fades away, knowing that he won’t have to add another name to the list if he doesn’t need to. 

But through the relief, a question tinged with trepidation blooms in his mind as the eyes the files, wishing he could burn them all. “Do they know?”

Waverly sighs, leaning back in his chair. “I had to provide my agent with the information I had on hand at the time. So yes, though Miss Teller hasn’t seen the full extent, she knows enough to get the picture. 

Illya’s jaw twitches as his body turns cold. “And Solo?” 

“Well, I imagine he looked you up. We had a peculiar leak a while ago, containing exactly what we knew about an agent known as the Beast. The breach coincided with the night you two first met, and I don’t believe much in coincidences when Mister Solo is involved, do you?” 

“No,” Illya bites out. His fists start to tremble, not out of anger, but from horror. They’d known all along, seen the monster between those reports. How could they have trusted him with that knowledge in mind? How could they have treated him like they did, like he was human, while they had known the truth all along? 

Suddenly disgusted with himself, Illya closes his eyes, remembering every moment with Gaby and Napoleon in another light. They knew about all that he’s done, and still— and still they showed care, trust, and even affection. Not for the first time the past week, Illya can’t comprehend their actions or their thoughts. He can only be thankful and try to be worthy of what they’ve given him.

“I’m sure your partners have enough reason to believe you’re more than your files show, Kuryakin,” Waverly says, standing up behind his desk. “That will be all for today. Could you tell Solo to come, in about 10 minutes? Would be much appreciated, thank you.” 

Illya nods and heaves himself out of the chair, his muscles aching from the awkward position he was in. He tries to walk out without causing more damage to the chaos, and closes the door behind him with a quiet sigh. 

He spots Napoleon sitting at one of the tables lining the balcony. He’s in deep conversation with Agent Moss, and from their expressions Illya infers the equal possibility in that they’re discussing the merits of different firearms or exchanging reviews of the seafood restaurants in the area. 

Before Illya allows himself to imagine them dining together, Moss is called down and leaves with a nod to Napoleon. Napoleon smiles and leans back into his chair, savouring his coffee with every sip. As the tick of high heels on glass steps recede, Illya deems it safe to step into Napoleon’s line of sight. 

“Making friends?” Illya says, not bothering to pretend he wasn’t watching. 

Napoleon raises an eyebrow and sets his cup down. “Spying on me, Peril?” 

“It’s my job.” Illya sits across him, and Napoleon pushes the second cup towards him. Illya takes it, pleasantly surprised Napoleon had thought of him and wordless with it. 

Napoleon laughs. “We’re on the same team now, remember. No stalking required.” He pauses for a second and then narrows his eyes at Illya, but the laugh doesn’t leave them as he says, “That means no bugs.” 

Illya shrugs, looking away with an as passive of an expression as he can manage and says deadpan, “Waverly gave me the permission to bug you whenever I deem it necessary.” 

Napoleon snorts, and Illya’s lips twitch despite himself. 

“That means always,” Napoleon concludes, ending with a faux-serious sigh of resignation. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to get used to it then.” 

“That would be wise,” Illya says, and then hides the small burst of mirth in the rim of his coffee cup. The coffee is bitter, but rich, and distracts him sufficiently enough to have control over his mouth back by the time he finishes. 

Napoleon lets the silence be silence, seeming to drift off as he looks out over the railing. The quiet between them isn’t uncomfortable, and it allows Illya to take Napoleon in as he sits there. With the busyness of UNCLE beneath him, Illya finds that Napoleon belongs here, placed perfectly within the right scenery, an agent looking out over his team. He seems to be more comfortable too, not the false carelessness to signal how unaffected he is, but a true relaxation in his shoulders and back, no constant tension to keep alert. There is a slight bit of hesitation too, as if he’s suspicious of the ease he’s feeling. 

A group of officials walk past them, shaking Illya out of his analysis and leaving him to wonder when he learned the difference between Napoleon faking comfort and truly being it. Or maybe it isn’t his eyes that catch the difference, it’s that Napoleon trusts him enough to let him see it. Illya hasn’t reached any conclusions when Napoleon interrupts him. 

“Charming, don’t you think?” 

Illya thinks for a moment that he meant someone walking past, but Napoleon isn’t looking at anyone, he’s glancing around the entire space, everything around them. 

“Almost painfully so,” he continues, “the glass, the plants on every corner, natural light and smiling workers.” Napoleon shakes his head. Illya doesn’t know what he wants him to say, so he keeps quiet and listens, watches Napoleon’s face as it changes again and again. 

“Truly charming,” Napoleon repeats, a hint of bitterness slipping through unannounced. He leans closer to Illya, becoming as if to share an amusing rumour, playful in every way it isn’t to him. “In my experience, Peril, perfect things break.” 

His tone is as rich and smarmy as it ever is. He sounds like he doesn’t care about things breaking, at most curious to see it explode, like a scientist sure of their hypothesis but eager for their results, or a child morbidly obsessed with seeing destruction in all its forms. 

But Illya knows he doesn’t truly mean it that way, he’s just setting up the pieces, detaching himself from the situation before the inevitable blast. And Illya understands that more than anything. For all that Waverly gave him the permission to be what he wants to be, it’s that exact fulfilment of wishes that makes Illya want to brace for impact, expecting every moment to be the last before it all crumbles around him. 

But he’s also aware of the chance they have in their hands, and how their experiences could break it before it’s broken. They ended up here, between shiny smiles and the freedom to be, and despite how much it scares him, Illya wants to take it and finally believe in something again. And Napoleon is a part of that. He needs to be a part of that. 

So Illya catches Napoleon’s gaze and says, “Waverly’s office is a pig stall. You are lucky if you can sit somewhere.” 

Napoleon watches him for a long second, and then tilts his head in consideration before looking away. “That’s something, at least.” 

A crash throws them out of their companionable silence and Waverly’s voice calls out a second later. Illya turns around to see his door crack open an inch, and Waverly’s face is just visible within the gap. 

“Solo, I’m ready for you in a moment. I just need one of you gentlemen to help me for a minute. The storage closet fell and I’ve seemed to have locked myself in here.” 

Illya smiles while Napoleon barks a laugh. They stand, almost as one, and go save their boss from the menace of office supplies. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh that was a lot of words for a week. I think y'all can understand why I was a bit late ;p 
> 
> I'll need a bit more time to get my schedule back after all this, such as a backlog of some french exercises I really should be doing. The next chapter is gonna be posted in two weeks because of that, sadly, but I'm gonna try to post a lil ficlet next Sunday so there is still something! 
> 
> Hope you liked this chapter! I'll see you guys around later <3
> 
> (And as usual comments are the fuel to my soul, so even if you just want to yell at me for all the angst, I would be absolutely delighted ;)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up for y'all. This is part one of a two part chapter. Gaby's chapter became a long one... I want to post the second part next Sunday, but after that I'll be taking a hiatus until the 15th of may, the day of my last exam. I really wanted to keep writing along side, but I've noticed that focusing on revision is hard as fuck if I also need to be writing ;) 
> 
> Of course I'll need some time to actually write chapter ten after my hiatus, I'm hoping that will take about a week or so, but I can't really give a real date. I'm really sorry!

Gaby has gotten into the habit of doing her paperwork on the plane back home. She goes through the papers with a pen tapping against her chin, working while Napoleon and Illya sleep the international night away. She’s eager to free up time to get back into the workshop, and finishes the second they land. 

With the files underneath her arm, she makes her way to the Headquarters, places the neat stack of paper on Waverly’s desk with a grin, says hello to Agent Moss as she walks past, and gets a flower put in her hair by Lavender. The shop bell tingles when she steps out onto the street, singing along to her freedom to do the work she loves, now that the paperwork is done with.

Napoleon and Illya, on the other hand, avoid it like the plague until the very last moment— much to Waverly’s chagrin. They dive into the gym or their respective rooms instead. Napoleon strings city nights together with hangover ridden mornings, and Illya plays chess, a lot of chess. Either way, they disappear off the face of the earth for two days exactly, until they get bored of freedom and end up following Gaby around like two listless puppies. 

Because Gaby is the only one of them that actually has things to do during down time, filling her schedule to the point of sleep deprivation. During missions, she takes careful mental notes on what devices would have been handy to have in certain situations, and then when she’s home, she works as hard as she can to get some done before the next mission begins. 

Like the two workaholics that they are — on everything besides paperwork — Illya and Napoleon edge around her projects equal parts intrigued and jealous. 

Officially, they’re not allowed in the workshop. While there are no hard rules on barring individuals from shared spaces in the Hotel, there are a lot of policies to keep a work area workable, so two bored Agents hanging about is frowned upon in that regard. 

Unofficially, there are two fauteuils in the corner of Gaby’s section, along with a reading lamp, a chessboard on the coffee table and stacks of books underneath. When one or both of them barge in, the other workers don’t even bother to look up anymore, used to them trudging over the rules at will. They’ve all had to accept their fate — including Gaby — because adding locks to the doors would only provide a more interesting challenge for Napoleon, and though Illya denies it, his puppy dog eyes are killer, and Gaby knows he uses them to get in without a keycard. 

So Gaby accepted their presence after it became clear they wouldn’t get bored with the workshop too. She did, however, instigate a few ground rules to keep herself sane and things from exploding: don’t be loud; no food on the workshop table; don’t touch anything without explicit permission; no requests for ‘cool gadgets’ except when written in triplicate, full forms and technical descriptions mandatory. Gaby thinks she’s especially clever for the last one. 

Though she has to repress the urge to nail the rules on Napoleon’s forehead, she’s gotten used to their presence while tinkering. They bring food, water and the occasional reminder to take a break and stretch her legs. They bring conversation and a soundboard to bounce ideas off, and they bring that same type of energy she loves the most during a mission: that quiet togetherness in anticipation for tomorrow, and the next. They end up doing their paperwork in the workshop, and even help out when the other workers need a strong hand. The technicians start to call them Blue and Red, with Napoleon being Red and Illya being Blue— to Napoleon’s delight and Illya’s annoyance.

So all in all, Gaby is far from surprised when someone in the front of the workshop pipes up and says, “Red incoming!” 

It’s the third day after all. 

 

“Oh, does it explode?” Napoleon says as he comes around her table. He grabs the watch and puts it around his wrist. “Look, Peril, we match.” 

Illya joins them, a few paces behind Napoleon, and shakes his head. He takes a look at the wrist Napoleon just shoved in his face, and doesn’t seem to be very impressed. “You could work on style, Gaby. This dark brown leather and the silver doesn’t match.” 

“Solo! Don’t touch my shit,” Gaby snaps. She steals it back with a flash of her hand and huffs, inspecting the watch, annoyed with Illya’s remark despite herself. “Shut it you two, or I won’t tell you what it does.”

Napoleon snaps his head up and says, “We’re shutting up.” He places a hand over Illya’s mouth and adds, “See? Peril is shutting up too.” 

Illya slaps his hand away and hisses, “I will break your fingers, Cowboy.” 

“Boys, quiet, please,” Gaby says half-heartedly, knowing from experience it won’t have much effect. She puts the watch down carefully and sighs when she notices Illya and Napoleon waiting attentively. “It’s a toxin device. Three compartments, one will knock a target out for about five minutes. Turn it at 12 o’clock and it’s loaded, press the rewind button and it shoots a puff of air in the target’s face. Close proximity, one person. 3 o‘clock is bigger, 20 minutes knockout, can be released in vents, but takes a while to take effect.” 

“And the third?” Illya asks, now watching the watch with suspicion.

Gaby smiles. “9 o’clock. Well, let’s say the target will have to go to the toilet for the better part of an hour. You put it in the target’s food. Liquid. Very inconspicuous if you get it right.” 

“Evil Evil Gaby,” Napoleon says, a proud grin filling his face. “I almost don’t want to ask, but where exactly does the target lose control… let’s say, when the latter is used?” 

“Everywhere,” Gaby says, smiling wider when Illya makes a face. “Now, let me work. I want to finish it before Waverly sends us away again.” 

Napoleon nods. “We’ll be out of your hair in a minute. When did he want us to be packed and ready?” 

“Saturday,” Gaby says, and rolls her eyes when Napoleon murmurs ‘oops’ under his breath. “Do you ever listen to what he’s saying?” 

“Before ten am? No,” Napoleon says decisively, without a sliver of shame, “and as he keeps insisting on meetings unreasonably early in the morning, I have absolutely no idea what is going on half of the time. It’s more fun anyway, I love surprises.” 

“You have two days to finish your paperwork, Cowboy,” Illya comments, already sat down in his chair, a book on his lap.

“I only need a day for that,” Napoleon says, dropping into his chair like a lazy cat. “Barely.” 

“You have one day,” Gaby corrects, turning back to her work. “He wants it the day _before_ we go, otherwise we’ll get a two star hotel for the mission.” 

“Fuck,” Napoleon says. Gaby hears him jump up and rummage through piles, making a mess of things, most likely. 

“It’s underneath the chessboard,” Gaby says without turning around. She hears Illya swear in Russian, Napoleon make a triumphant sound, and small objects fall to the ground. 

Gaby chuckles and shakes her head, tuning out the ruckus behind her and focusing on the watch in her hands. For all that she loves the workshop, the boys clearly need a mission to keep them busy before they destroy the place. Luckily one is coming up soon. She’s looking forward to it. 

Saturday comes with a worried looking Waverly. He’s forgotten to make tea, which is how Gaby knows that this is going to be a rough one. 

“There has been a bit of trouble in France, some politicians came to their untimely death due to a series of accidents that would be considered coincidental, if it weren’t for the very fortunate timing— or unfortunate, depending how you look at it.” Waverly paces back and forth in the hallway, as Gaby, Napoleon and Illya watch from a table to the side. Gaby had refused to even attempt to fit them all in Waverly’s office, and Waverly looked like he needed pacing-space anyway. 

“Fortunate, how?” Napoleon asks. 

Waverly waves a hand, turning on his feet and continuing back the way he came. “Economical wish-wash, I can’t quite get into all the details. But in short, the politicians who died weren’t very powerful individually, an officer here, a council member there, but they were all tied to a certain effort to close some loopholes in the law, loopholes that are very lucrative for a great group of people.” 

Gaby taps her hand against the table, thinking, “A group of people inside or outside the law?” 

“Both,” Waverly says, “but now these deaths have occurred, we’re leaning more towards the latter. We’re suspecting at least three of the accidents to not be accidents at all, but there could be more. The extent of this operation has not yet been uncovered, which is worrying, and also the reason why we’re called in.” 

“The Sûreté Nationale asked for us?” Illya asks, disbelieving. It’s true that recent events in France might have sabotaged their reputation for a little while, but Gaby maintains they shouldn’t be to blame for the mishaps in Paris. There where a multitude of reasons why everything went ridiculously wrong, including the local police not telling them about the mines lining the targeted properties. Waverly talks over her thoughts, his footsteps once again nearing, so Gaby pushes the past away and listens. 

“Not as such,” Waverly says, wringing his hands almost apologetically. “Oleg did.” 

At the name, Gaby turns to Illya automatically, a pavlovian response baked in by quiet comments over time, that made her impression of the KGB agent darker with each second.

Illya tenses, and a second too late his face goes blank, surprise and apprehension crossing over beforehand. Gaby feels it rolling off him in waves, even though he tries to hide it so desperately. She sees Napoleon brush his hand against Illya’s arm before asking, “May I ask why he asked for us? What does he have to do with a series of political murders in France? Is one of his people behind it?” 

Gaby presses her lips together, but Illya doesn’t speak up against Napoleon’s words, just keeps staring ahead. She doesn’t know if it’s because of Oleg as a concept, or if he knows more about this situation than Napoleon and her do. 

Waverly shakes his head shortly in response to Napoleon’s question. “No, it’s not the KGB or someone affiliated with them. Oleg only made note of these events because he recognised a certain feature of the suspected killings he’s seen before in the Soviet Union. One batch against low-level politicians as well, about seven years ago, and another series of seemingly unconnected assassinations between five and four years ago.” Waverly pauses, his gaze flickering to Illya, and Gaby follows suit.

Illya takes a deep, silent breath, realisation stark on his face, and Gaby’s stomach drops when she sees a tremor running through his body. It’s been a while since she’s seen Illya shaken; this can’t mean anything good. 

“I would greatly appreciate it if you’d get to the point, Waverly,” Napoleon says jovially, but there is a sharpness to his smile, his body turned towards Illya as if ready to step in front of him at a moments notice. Gaby mirrors his position and tilts her head at Waverly, as to wordlessly encourage him to continue. She’d appreciate some clarity too, right about now. 

“The assassin doesn’t have a name or title,” Waverly begins, and pauses to clear his throat, “but unofficially he’s called the Ghost. The nickname originated from his ability to disappear without a trace, and sometimes leaving behind a faint white glowing substance, if shone on with infrared light. They’re still debating if it’s meant to be a signing of the work, a poison or other kind of weapon, or if it’s a new way of getting rid of evidence. There is little we truly know about him or his methods, and, well—“ Waverly pauses again, sighs and spreads his hands. “Agent Kuryakin might be the greatest expert on this topic, so if you’d like to take over, now would be the time.” 

Gaby thinks for a moment that Illya will stand up and just walk away, but he only straightens in his seat, his back locked tight and jaw clenched. He seems like he’d rather burn than speak, but after a long dragging second, Waverly clears his throat and at once Illya drops his deterrence and nods once. 

“Yes, sir,” Illya says, the monotonous defeat in his voice makes Gaby feel cold. Napoleon falters for a moment, his easy demeanour slipping away, and he turns to glare at Waverly. 

“I never knew the Ghost,” Illya says, “I never met him. But I’m familiar with his work.” 

Gaby almost doesn’t want to ask. “Familiar?” 

Illya closes his eyes and sighs; he seems exhausted. “I’ve been sent to kill many. He has been paid to kill many more. Our paths overlapped more than once. There was never any communication, but there have been times he finished a job before I could, and I did his for him.” 

“How did you know?” Napoleon asks, his voice matching Illya’s low tone. 

Illya clenches his fists, Gaby sees the nails digging into his skin and she wants to take them in her hands and pry them apart. But they need the information, and they can’t afford Illya to be distracted or shut down right now. 

“Whenever I killed someone on his list, I got sent black carnations, bouquets of them,” Illya says. He stares into the distance as if he’s seeing things they can’t reach. In a way he is, lost to memories they’ll never know. “And when he killed one of mine, he’d leave one by the body. Maybe to tell me I owed him. I don’t know.” 

“That or he has a morbid definition of friendship,” Napoleon comments, shaking his head. “I assume he’s the one we’re being sent in to catch? He’s been too much trouble to let loose?” 

Waverly nods. “Yes, the Ghost is the number one priority right now. He’s been getting a taste of political targets and in the current situation we can’t afford anyone making an ever bigger mess of the fragile state we’re in. We’re also looking to put the client away, the one who ordered the latest batch. It’s most likely that you’ll find the Ghost through him, instead of the other way around.”

“Is there anything we know about the client?” Napoleon asks. Gaby gets the feeling he wants to push the conversation along— away from Illya, and she wholeheartedly agrees. 

“You said there were a few suspected groups, do we have intel or is collecting information a part of the mission?” Gaby asks. 

“We have three main suspects,” Waverly says, and to his credit he seems to be relieved for the change of subject. “A former politician who has been in the system for trying to influence power behind the scenes. A business owner who’d have much benefit to roadblock the local government, and a recent heir to a fortune that has been connected with a crime family in Paris, and who is maybe trying to use his new-found riches to establish himself.” 

“I’m betting on the last one,” Napoleon says, “little bastards like that always like to cause trouble.” 

“Though I’m not a gambling man, I’d agree with your assessment, Agent Solo,” Waverly says, a small smile dancing on his face. “Edward Charron is considered to be the most-likely culprit, the others have too much to lose to use methods such as assassinations, but you’ll receive the full files to read through on the plane, so you can draw your own conclusions.” 

“Joy,” Napoleon says. 

Waverly ignores him. “Your ride should be here any moment now. Your plane will depart in about an hour.” He hesitates for a moment, and then looks up with a serious expression that hasn’t been there for a long time. “I urge you to be careful,” he says, “The Ghost— there are only a handful of people who’ve reached such high numbers without getting caught—”

Illya looks away and swallows. 

“— so this could be more dangerous than usual, and usual is already plenty dangerous.” Waverly sighs, and he looks tired, the concern seeping out of him before another kind smile replaces it. “I’d like you all to come back whole.” 

“We’ll be careful,” Gaby says. “We’ll keep you updated.” 

Waverly nods distractedly, hands behind his back and looking off to the side. “Yes, thank you.” 

They leave him like that, slightly discomforted, but there is little time to linger before they’re whisked off to the airport and the clock starts ticking until landing, and there are many files to go through. They don’t get to them all, the flight too short for the amounts of information, and they continue their work after they’ve settled in the hotel rooms. 

Gaby is buried deep in a picture collection of Edward Charron’s recent excursions, when Napoleon interrupts her before she can turn the page. 

“Wait, show that one again?” Napoleon looks over her shoulder and peers into the file. “—yes, the one at the cocktail party, who is she? According to the file?” 

“No name listed,” Gaby says, questioning the competence of Intel once again. “But it says here that he brought his personal assistant as his plus one and—“ Gaby stands up and rummages through the stack of files on the table until— “Ah, here, company records. They hired a new assistant nine months ago. Why is this relevant?” Gaby sits back down and scans the picture, the woman has long dark hair with bright red lipstick that almost pops out of the picture. “… that’s a month before the murders started, so maybe she knows something about them? She might even have handled some of the transactions…” 

Napoleon nods along, trying to steal the file from her hands unsuccessfully, “Yes, but I need her name.” 

“Patience is a virtue, Solo,” Gaby says, “one you will never have. Her name is Liah Ashflower.”

“She’s always had a strange penchant for peculiar pseudonyms. A bit flashy for my taste. She went around calling herself Miss Skull for a time, for example.” 

“Do you know her?” 

“Knowing would be a strong word, but I’ve met her, yes. Dealt with her, more aptly. She has had many positions in the criminal world while I was around, but I know her mostly for ordering certain commissions. A Vermeer, Monet, and a Van Gogh, to be exact. Her clients paid well, nice but doable challenges, never had any trouble with her except for the names.” 

“Do you know her enough to get her talking?” 

“I suppose, yes,” Napoleon says thoughtfully,“with some candlelight and a promise of an entertaining night? Definitely. She’s always been interested in more than my criminal assets, so to speak.” 

“I’d rather you do not speak ‘as such’, Solo,” Gaby says and flicks him on the head. Illya clenches his jaw in what Gaby takes to be agreement to Solo’s general idiocy and the plan in general. But needs must, as Waverly would say. She passes Napoleon the file and smiles placidly. “You and your assets are on roll call then. Contact her, make the meeting happen, and get us the information we need.” 

Napoleon takes the file and presses it to his chest as if affronted. “You’re being very rude, Miss Teller.” 

Gaby sends him a look that might be able to burn holes into his skin, while saying sickly sweet, “Please?” 

“That’s better,” Napoleon says and flashes a smile. He takes a few quick steps towards the bathroom, departing with a bow. “I’ll be preparing to do my job. Feel free to laze around while I save the day, again.” 

Gaby rolls her eyes and ignores him. 

“You cannot sleep your way into heroism, Cowboy,” Illya calls after him. 

Behind the door a tinny voice goes, “I’ll try my hardest nonetheless, Peril, such is my selflessness,” and Gaby tunes them out before they arrive in another endless cycle of bickering. She grabs one of the still untouched files, and hopes to god Intel has left some diamonds between all these piles of goat droppings pretending to be intelligence. 

As usual, Napoleon takes a longer time to get ready that seems reasonable in any definition of the word. Illya waits with a nervous energy that has Gaby sighing and putting her work down, to call Napoleon out on it. 

“I’m sure you look pretty enough for her now, Napoleon,” She says. “You’ve been in there for almost an hour, you never take this long if you’re dressing up for us.” 

The door clicks and Napoleon steps out, formally dressed with what seems like about 5 grand hanging off of him in clothes and a shiny looking ring with a black stone set in the middle. His shoes are red and flashy, and his hair is slicked back as usual, but strangely; too much in some way she can’t figure out. 

Gaby raises an eyebrow and says, “That doesn’t seem like your style. Don’t you have to be more yourself? You’re not playing a cover this time, remember. She knows you, and you’d never wear that.” 

“Oh, she doesn’t want to meet me. She doesn’t know me” Napoleon says, tying his tie while grinning wide. “She wants to meet _Solo._ ” 

And it’s not just the way he says it that makes Gaby shiver, it’s the way his face ripples with change, soft lines smoothed away and replaced by an indulgent smile one could find in every photo magazine. It feels unnatural, too frozen in one static emotion. He moves differently too, controlled casualty, his shoulders pulled back and centre of gravity high up, as if pulled by the confidence wafting off of him. His arms are open in an imitation of intimacy, as is the light in his eyes. It feels real, like a spark of interest, but Gaby knows what Napoleon looks like when he’s curious— it’s definitely not that. 

She’s never seen him turn it on this starkly, but she recognises the Napoleon she once met in it all. Before experience grew into trust, and slowly made him more become human than performance around her. 

The perfectly genuine smiles that made him look like nothing fazed him started to fall apart when she looked at them from the right angle. Gaby has been learning those angles for a long time, but now, with the mask fully form-fitted, she can’t see it’s edges. She knows they’re there, but looking at him now, she wouldn’t have seen this man for anything other than the pompous but charming asshole he’s presenting himself as. 

Illya has his hands clenched in fists on his lap, watching the one-Solo-show with a tense expression. 

Gaby knows he hates it more than she does. She sees the need for it, prefers the games and play before direct confrontation herself too. It’s more satisfying to trick a mark into doing something, instead of forcing them, less messy too. And Napoleon is a natural. On her less restrained moments, the ease in which he filters through personalities frustrates to no end. She’s never been proud of jealousy, but in this particular instance it’s unavoidable. She’s getting better, she’s good already, but she will never be like Napoleon. 

“You know yourself too well,” Napoleon had said once, when her frustration became obvious. “Pretending to be isn’t enough. You have to believe and then _become_ the person you need to be. The more you know about yourself, the harder that fight is. Like it’s easier to paint over a white canvas than a used one, it’s easier to adapt characteristics when you yourself don’t have contradicting ones.” 

“What do you know then?” Gaby had snapped. “About who you are?”

Napoleon had smiled and Gaby had been unable to find the angle to see it fall apart. “Very little, which is why it’s easier for me. It’s not your fault.” 

“So I’m just stuck with this?” 

“You’ll get good enough, you just have to build up stamina to last.” Napoleon had paused. “I wouldn’t recommend trying to unknown yourself. It’s not something you come back from, and you’re fine as you are.” 

Gaby is dragged back to the present by Napoleon’s voice. “Calm yourself Illya, I’ve done this countless of times. There is nothing to be worried about. Besides, having one of you following me will only make her more suspicious. I have to play this like I’ve not worked with anyone. Solo would never have partners, Solo works alone. Any deviation from that will make her suspicious.” 

“You’re too confident. You don’t know her,” Illya snaps and stalks to the other side of the room. 

Napoleon raises an eyebrow, more indulgence, more placidity. It’s scary to see how little of Napoleon is actually there. “I know her better than you do. I’ve got this.” 

Illya shakes his head shortly, glaring but saying nothing else, and Gaby is immediately on edge. 

Illya has always been better at seeing though Napoleon, even if he doesn’t seem to know it. Whenever Napoleon is covering something, Illya will make it visible somehow, react to what he sees instead of perceiving and questioning. That task falls on Gaby. They’re an emotional game of telephone, where Gaby needs to figure out what is the missing piece of a puzzle she can’t see, while Illya doesn’t seem to realise there is a puzzle at all, and Napoleon does his very best to keep the pieces hidden. 

“Wear your mic,” Gaby says, and she speaks over Napoleon’s inevitable protest. “I know she’s low risk, but I want to be sure. We can’t take Intelligence on its word with the disaster of last month. I want you to keep us updated and if there is anything off, use a codeword and I’ll be your cousin picking you up to see Grandmama in the hospital before she takes her last breath.” 

It’s a shot in the dark. Napoleon grimaces as if he’s put off by the unnecessary meddling, but Gaby keeps her periphery focused on Illya, who’s scrutinising Napoleons expression with a tense stare, until he finally sighs out a breath and relaxes a fraction. Jackpot, Gaby thinks, and keeps her grin firmly inside. 

She raises an eyebrow at Napoleon and says, “I could call Waverly and make it an order. He did want us to be careful after all. 

Napoleon turns away, smoothing out his suit collar. “Fine. Peril, where did you leave them?” 

It takes a few calls and a smug grin before Napoleon leaves with a wave. “Don’t wait up.”

A second later the receiver clicks on and soft sounds come out of the headphones of Napoleon descending the stairs. 

Illya looks at the closed door for a moment before casting Gaby a glance that could have been gratitude, if he’d had any idea of what was going on. As it is, it’s more likely that it is relief, thankful for the luck that Gaby incidentally solved the foreboding feeling in his gut. Gaby almost rolls her eyes at him, at a loss for how these two could ever survive without her around. 

“He’s going to get himself killed,” Illya says, his hands clutched around the receiver. 

Gaby sighs, playing her nerves off as disinterest— something Napoleon hadn’t had to teach her. “Isn’t he always?” 

Illya doesn’t respond, and they wait, Illya starting to pace as time ticks by. 

“He has arrived,” Illya says, stopping mid pace. 

Gaby nods and says, “Transfer it to my earpiece, I want to listen along.” 

Illya sits down back on the sofa, fiddles with the device until static comes through Gaby’s ear that then suddenly turns into Napoleon’s voice. 

“Delilah, it has been too long.” 

There is the scrape of a chair being pulled back, and an airy peal laughter. 

“Mister Solo, you haven’t changed one bit.” 

“I choose to take that as a compliment and please— call me Napoleon.” 

“Such a privilege.” 

“You’re deserving of it.” 

The flirtation continues well until the waiter has come for their orders and leaves again. They talk about nothing much, the restaurant, wine, what to get for dinner, and Gaby lets it wash to the background, sure that if anything went awry, Illya would make a note of it. 

And he does, about an hour into the dinner. “Gaby?” 

Gaby looks up from her files and at Illya’s expression, turns the volume of her earpiece up again. 

“Come on, you thought I wouldn’t have kept taps on you?” Delilah’s voice seems to be a mix of patronising amusement.

“I’m flattered,” Napoleon says. 

“Don’t be, it’s more a security measure than personal interest.” 

“Well, I’m happy to inform you that it wasn’t necessary. Yes, I admit I’ve been caught many years ago, but this isn’t relevant at this time. I’ve done some consultancy work for the CIA to keep them off my back, as long as I’m more useful on the streets they won’t bother me or my business. But this has nothing to do with them, I’ve not worked with them for years. I assure you, I’m a free man acting out of my own self-interest, and interests I have plenty of.” 

Illya stands up and grabs his gun, ready to go in fighting, and Gaby agrees this isn’t the scenario they wanted, but shooting their way out of it is only going to make it harder. 

“Illya, don’t,” she says, standing up herself and putting up her hair in one fell swoop.

“This isn’t the plan,” Illya snaps. “She knows too much.” 

“I agree, but we can’t risk scaring her off either. We need all the information we can get, and if we threaten her, her boss will disappear too.” 

Illya clenches his fists but nods at last. “He can’t be without backup.” 

“I know. I’m going in. You stay here, keep listening, try to find something on her we could use. She’s more well connected than we expected. There has to be something we missed.” 

Illya looks at her and opens his mouth, presumably to protest being benched, but Gaby shakes her head once again. They can’t risk blowing this, and Illya’s aggression issues have revolved around protectiveness lately, with Solo in particular, and Gaby has no time to talk him out of it or discover what’s behind it, she can only work around it and make sure they don’t sabotage themselves with impulsive actions. 

“— what would those interests be? If you’re not being ‘useful’ as you say, at this moment.”

Gaby grabs her stuff and hopes Napoleon can either talk Delilah out of suspicion or stall her until she gets there. 

“I’ve procured an artefact that I believe your boss would be interested in. It’s a 17th century map of the Indies, something I’ve heard he has been looking for. I’m willing to give him the first chance of placing a bid. If he starts with the right price, I won’t look for any alternatives.” 

There is a pause, and then. “No, that just won’t do.” 

Gaby freezes, the confirmation that this has just gone to shit runs through her veins like ice. 

“What?” Napoleon says in her ear, unfazed — but Gaby knows he isn’t — and continuing casually, “should I name a price?” 

“Gaby,” Illya snaps. “Go, now.” 

“Yes, 10 minutes. I’ll be there.” At once she’s moving again, and rushes down the stairs to the parking lot while keeping an ear on Napoleon’s proceedings. She climbs into the car and drives.

He tries to talk Delilah in circles, detailing the map, offering anecdotes and comments that could have proven his cover as truth, but it’s clear that Delilah isn’t fooled. She’s a step ahead of them, and she makes that clear when she interrupts another of Napoleon’s stories and says, 

“I know who you work for Solo. You’ve lost your magic, sadly. What was the acronym again? UNCLE, right? Do you even know what it stands for.” 

Napoleon starts to say something but Delilah talks right over him. Gaby skids over the pavement, cutting a corner and avoiding a traffic jam without a care. 

“Well anyway,” Delilah says. “I came to warn you off. Whatever your handler is ordering you, stay away from this one.” 

Napoleon sighs. “If we’re being honest with each other…” 

Gaby presses on her earpiece to speak with Illya and says, “She knows about us. He’s doing the clear glass tactic. I have a bad feeling about this.” 

Illya grunts as if he agrees. “I can’t find anything about her. She’s too well hidden. Just— hurry.” 

“I am,” Gaby hesitates for a moment and then, “it’s your call. I don’t want to make this worse than it is, but if you feel more useful following us, you can.” 

There is a long drawn breath. “I’m coming.” 

Gaby nods to herself and remembers Illya can’t see it. “Okay. I’ll arrive in about three minutes. Let me know when you’re close.” 

There is rummaging in the background and Gaby takes that as confirmation enough, and switches back to Napoleon’s mic. 

“My people are interested in your boss, not you. He’s been a bit of a political explosive lately, and you can avoid the destruction if you give us a little while to talk face-to-face. You don’t need a task force on your back, Delilah, you’re smarter than that.” 

“I’m afraid I can’t help you.” 

“Are you sure?” Napoleon’s voice turns low, suggestive, “you’d get something out it beside safety, if you’re interested. I know you’ve been trying, over the years. I’m offering.” 

“I’m not interested, so sorry,” Delilah says with a chuckle. “I hope I didn’t damage your ego too much, Napoleon.” 

“No harm, no foul,” Napoleon says. 

Delilah hums for a second. “You’re not either, aren’t you? Interested? Not... really. Oh my, the great Solo has fallen, you can hear the thousands of hearts break if you listen hard enough.” 

Napoleon clears his throat. “There is no reason to insult me.” 

“Who is it? You know I love some gossip. Is it your partner, what’s her name— Gaby Teller. I’ve seen some pictures and I could understand, though she seems a bit too sweet for you. You’ve always liked it rough.” 

Illya comes through, sounding tense and hurried, wind howling on the background. “ _Gaby_.” 

“I’m close,” she says, and parks the car somewhere reasonably illegal and steps out. “She knows too much about us. I’m going in. How far are you?” 

“Five minutes,” Illya bites out. “There was a problem on the road.” 

“Shit.” Gaby walks carefully to the restaurant, the golden doors shining brightly in the dark night. Three guards stand before the door, with another patrolling the edge of the parking lot. “She’s expecting us.” Gaby ducks into an alleyway to the side, and hurries her pace around the corner, where the smell of the kitchen starts to reach her. 

“I think we’re done here,” Napoleon says in her ear, she hears him standing, the table jostling with abrupt movement. 

Delilah follows. “I’d agree. It was nice to see you again, Mister Solo.” 

There is a loud bang Gaby hears both through the earpiece and through the wall of the building. 

The line goes dead. 

“Fuck,” Gaby spits. She can’t wait for Illya, she has to go in now. “I’m going in the back. There are guards in front.” 

“Two minutes.” 

Illya’s reply is almost cut off by the slam of the backdoor against the wall. Delilah steps out, an unresponsive Napoleon in her arms. Gaby draws her gun, but before she can click off the safety, she sees the barrel against Napoleon’s side. 

“Ah there we have the second of our trio,” Delilah says smiling, “Gaby, dear, if you would drop your gun for me, it would save us a mess.” 

Gaby has no choice but to comply. She puts the gun down and lays it on the ground, ready for any opening. She hopes Illya can hear what is going on and get there on time. 

“Thank you,” Delilah says, and she aims the gun away from Napoleon. Gaby pushes down a sigh of relief. 

Suddenly Napoleon stirs and he grabs the gun out of her hand. It goes off, but wide, ricocheting off the pavement and into a trashcan. The gun falls to the ground, Napoleon’s hands too shaky with whatever Delilah did to him, but before she can pick it back up Gaby rushes forward, landing a blow on her chin. She immediately drops into a defensive stance, and they fight, Gaby connecting fist after fist but receiving a few heavy kicks in return. 

“You’re good,” Delilah says after landing one flat hand on Gaby’s ear, the ringing almost overwhelms her, but the only thing she can think about is that she just lost contact with Illya. Before she can do anything about it, Delilah steps forward, grabs her by the fabric of her dress and smiles wide. “Luckily, Ghosts don’t play fair. Night night, Gaby.” 

Gaby shudders in realisation and then electricity burns through her, the taser making her body shake uncontrollably until her knees buckle. The single thought that rushes through her as darkness consumes her is one loud and clear, _Fucking assassin piece of shit._ She can’t voice it, unconscious before she finds her mouth in the darkness. 

It’s a pity, really. That bitch would have deserved that and more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So once again UPDATE SCHEDULE
> 
> I want to post part two next Sunday (the only exception here would be if I notice that I'm not revising because I'm distracted by finishing it, and I really don't wanna fuck up my exams ya feel.) 
> 
> And then hiatus until 15th + however long it takes to write chapter 10. At the latest, the end of may :) 
> 
> This is a first for me, having to really force myself to take a break. I'm really sorry, but I gotta make sure I'm not gonna regret my decisions after all the exams, and not studying would definitely not help with that. 
> 
> Sorry for leaving you all on a cliffhanger, and I hope you enjoyed it :D


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi y'all, repeating this so no one missed it: This chapter is the last one for a little while. I gotta take a break because of finals. My last one is the 15th of may, so I'm hoping that I can post the next chapter around the end of may. If everything goes to plan, there are only two chapters left after this one :D We're reaching the end slowly but surely. 
> 
> Hope this long one gets you over the long wait a bit! I'm really curious to hear y'alls reactions, have been planning this plotline for a while now <3

Gaby wakes up to voices. She keeps still, listening, careful not to show a sign that she’s conscious. Her arms ache behind her back, and ropes dig into her skin around her wrists. She doesn’t know how long she’s been out.

“I’ve always wondered why you stayed,” Delilah’s sweet voice sounds, a couple of feet away. It echoes against the walls of a space, and Gaby imagines the room as fairly small and empty. “After the CIA dropped you, you could have run then, used your contacts. I halfway expected a call, I’m sure I owe you that in one way or another.

“For that time in Iran then, I could let you go, there are safe houses available, and contacts to get you back in the game for real. Let go of this strange prison and be who you really are, the Solo, the thief.”

“No,” Napoleon murmurs. She can barely hear him, he speaks softly, and sounds closer to Delilah than he is to her. But Gaby can hear enough to know that he’s wrecked, the hurt spills over in that single word and it’s almost enough to shake Gaby out of her silence. She knows that tone of voice; only twice she’s heard it in person, and both times were after they rescued Napoleon from torturous situations. A chill runs up her spine as Gaby realises that the pungent smell in the air is blood, and she tries to desperately stamp down the anger and fear for Napoleon. She has to keep them unaware.

“Do they have blackmail on you?” Delilah says, sounding slightly confused at Napoleon’s deterrence. “Or is it really sentimentality? You’ve never been much for justice, so it isn’t that.”

Napoleon takes a gurgling breath. Gaby feels sick.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Napoleon says, and chuckles then, softly. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

Delilah sighs. “I’m not sure either. If you’re not going to take my offer, you’re in my way, and I really don’t like that.”

An explosion echoes somewhere outside, and Delilah laughs. “There is your third half, right on cue. It’s very effective if they all come running towards the bait.”

“Don’t you dare,” Napoleon spits darkly, all his remaining strength behind it. Chains rattle, iron against wood, but the click clack of Delilah’s heels moves away, without a response to Napoleon.

“Another dose,” Delilah says, “heavy. Don’t give him the chance to escape. I know a few people who’d offer a pretty price for his head. He’s made enough enemies to make this worthwhile for us.”

Her morbid speech is interrupted by the sound of guns firing close by.

“On second thought, bring them to the cellar once the drugs do their job. Kuryakin is getting a little too close for my liking.”

“Yes, Madam.”

The gate falls closed, but before she leaves, she speaks up once more. “A pity, Solo, to see the great fall.”

Napoleon spits on the floor, and Gaby keeps herself silent, as much as she wants to curse Delilah out and hit her. She has a moment of kinship with Illya and his anger, the fire burning inside her feels almost overwhelming, fueled more by the frustration of not being able to do anything at this moment. She has to be patient, wait until the right opportunity to strike.

It’s surprisingly hard to keep herself unresponsive as she’s manhandled and pushed while blind. Two guards have her by her ankles and arms, and throw her to the ground, apparently not very concerned with her well being. She lets herself get bruised and ached, doesn’t respond when one of them loosens her ties to chain her to the wall. Even if she’d succeed in beating one, it wouldn’t be nearly enough. She heard at least five guards marching alongside them. Three of them busy dealing with Napoleon, who sounds like he got the good-stuff and has lost all concept of reality, laughing at nothing at all, the sound echoing through the cellars.

She opens her eyes when she’s sure all guards have left them alone in the cell. Illya provides enough motivation to leave two incapacitated prisoners by seemingly shooting everything that comes near him. At last only one guard remains by the door, the rest ordered in to deal with the mess he’s making. Gaby makes a note to buy a whole bunch of croissants when they get back home.

Napoleon is standing against the wall, eyes droopy and hands shaking. “What is it with women and laced drinks, Gaby? Or at least, what is it with women, laced drinks, and me? I suppose for the rest of the world, the genders are more reversed, don’t you think? Did anyone ever lace your drink Gaby? I can assure you, it’s not a nice experience. I recommend laying down beforehand. Normally I remember to do so, but this time I forgot, and now my skull isn’t happy.”

“Shh, Solo. Silent, please. Go lay down if you’re dizzy,” Gaby says, her eyes flicking toward the small barred square in the cell door, where the tuft of a guard’s head is only barely visible. She scans Napoleon quickly, looking for any visible wounds, and takes a hissing breath when she sees the marks on his arms, long cuts barely avoiding his arteries. They might not want him dead yet, but they want him weak: combining pain, with whatever drugs they’ve got, and potential slow blood loss, they’ve succeeded.

“I am,” Napoleon says, swaying on his feet. “I am— _supremely_ dizzy. I can tell you that. Very, _very_ dizzy.”

“Sit down,” Gaby hisses, suddenly scared that he’ll hit his head.

“As your wish,” Napoleon says, takes a bow, and falls flat on his arse.

Gaby barks a shrill laugh, the terrifying hilarity of the situation escaping from her chest. Her heart is racing, its beat almost in sync with the gunshots on the background. She knows Illya won’t be able to do much alone— not with the whole guard against him, and Delilah there too.

A voice in the back of her mind repeats the exact words Delilah had said, revealing herself, but maybe there is more to it. Luckily _ghosts_ don’t play fair. What if they’re dealing with more than one assassin?

Gaby pushes the thought away; she can’t do anything about it while she’s still tied up. She twists around, and bends her head to her hands. The angle is awkward, and she can’t do it prettily, so she clenches her jaw and yanks one of her earrings out of her ear. It fucking hurts, she feels blood trickle down her neck and her ear stings, but she has it in her hand, and twists the fake gemstone to the side to reach a little hidden button.

Napoleon watches with wide eyes. “I don’t think it’s meant to work that way, Gaby— Usually someone _takes_ them out, instead of what you just did.”

“I know,” Gaby says, twisting her wrists so that she can work the earring around the joint of her chains, the aluminium ring bending easily just like she intended. “Solo, I need you to make a lot of noise. Go curse out those bastards.”

Napoleon grins. “That I can do.”

And he does, yelling at the top of his lungs and insulting the guard before the door and his family to the third generation. The guard doesn’t respond, but the noise is what Gaby needed. She pushes the button with her nail on, a beat passes, and then it explodes with a tiny bang. Just enough to weaken the right places. Over Napoleon’s yelling and Illya’s shooting, there is little chance anyone heard.

Gaby carefully untangles the chains and stands, digging with a newly-freed hand in her bra until she finds what she’s looking for. She takes out the small iron rod, about the size of a needle, takes the protective plastic off, and slowly walks toward the door. With a quick movement, she jabs it in the back of the guards neck. He twists around in reflex, but it wouldn’t have felt than anything but a little prick. Nothing harmful— until a few moments later.

“Don’t touch me,” he snaps, and his eyes widen. “How did you get out of your—“

He can’t finish his sentence before he falls forward against the door, snoring.

Napoleon stops cursing behind her and laughs.

Gaby grins. She takes her other earring out — gently this time — and uses it to weaken the lock of the door. With some pushing they get it open, and they’re out.

It becomes clear very rapidly that Napoleon isn’t able to walk by himself. He takes uncertain steps along the wall, doing his very best, resulting in a snail pace that has Gaby fuming. She grabs his arm and takes as much weight as she can, but the entirety of Napoleon hanging off of her is slowing her down that doesn’t differ much from Napoleon trying to walk alone.

“This is the 14th time I’m saving your ass Solo,” Gaby huffs once they’ve made it out of the hallway, and now take the mountainous challenge of stone stairs.

“It’s rude to keep count, you know,” Napoleon informs her primly.

Gaby snorts, trying to keep him upright, but his legs drag under him and she almost loses her balance. When they nearly fall down a step, Gaby knows they can’t get anywhere like this. “A fine wine will do, at least, as a thank you,” she says, her breathing coming fast. She pushes Napoleon to lean against the wall so she can take a much needed rest, while trying to think a way out of this.

Her frantic attempts are interrupted by the sound of static close by. Gaby frowns, quickly scanning around them for anyone, but there is no one in the halls and no footsteps come down the stairs.

“Do you hear that?” Gaby whispers to Napoleon.

Napoleon nods and pats his chest pocket. “That’s Illya.”

Gaby blinks for a moment, seriously considering the possibility that Napoleon has lost his mind completely, until Napoleon digs into the pocket and shows her his earpiece with a childishly proud grin.

“See? Illya.”

Gaby shakes her head, halfway stuck between sighing, laughing, and crying, takes the earpiece and recalibrating the frequency until she hears Illya clear voice calling out.

“Napoleon! Napoleon! Where are you! Are you okay!” There is a shuffle and someone groaning in pain. “Please— respond. Please.”

“We’re here, peril,” Napoleon says to the piece. “Don’t you worry your pretty head.”

Illya curses, and Gaby hears his relief between the stream of Russian and bullets following. “Where are you? Where is Gaby?”

“We’re in the basement,” Gaby answers, adding, “and we have a bit of a problem. Napoleon is incapacitated—”

“— what happened, is he—“

“He’s just drugged,” Gaby says quickly, “alive and talking, but virtually useless.”

“Hey!” Napoleon says, and pouts.

Gaby ignores him. “Point is, I can’t get to you. I can’t carry him. We’re too slow. You’re doing good with distracting them, but sooner or later someone is going to notice we’ve escaped.”

“I—“ Illya says, but he’s cut off by another spray of bullets. Gaby hears a hitch of breath through the mic, and she exchanges a worried glance with Napoleon.

“Illya?” Gaby says hesitantly.

“I’m fine,” Illya bites out. “Just a graze. I got him. But—“ he sighs, and his tone turns dark. “I can’t help you. I’m stuck. They got me cornered. Just run, get out of here.”

Gaby closes her eyes, knowing that Illya is angry with himself, and knowing he’s serious about sacrificing himself. She would have done it too, in his place but— “That won’t work either. The chances of us getting out of here alive are very slim, Illya. I’m not letting you play hero for nothing you hear?”

 _I’m not letting you die for us in any circumstance_ , Gaby wants to say, but she knows Illya won’t accept that. The only way to keep him fighting is by making him believe that it’s the only way to save them. And it isn’t a lie, Gaby is exhausted and she’s out of tricks. They have no weapons to protect themselves with, and now that Illya is contained, someone will come back any time. She could try to sneak back to get the guard’s gun, like she should have done before getting distracted by Napoleon, but that would mean leaving Napoleon here and—

There is another repressed groan from the earpiece. Napoleon’s eyes snap open and he squeezes Gaby’s hand. “Go. Leave me. I’ll be fine.”

His eyes are so much clearer than a moment ago as he stares intently into her own, a desperation to them that makes Gaby’s heart bleed. He seems to be fighting hard for control over his mind, and with his ability to think he’s ordering her to leave him behind.

“Please,” Napoleon says, begs, almost. His gaze flickers to the earpiece where Illya has fallen frightfully silent, save for the noise of battle. “It’s the only way. You need to help him, pick me up later when it’s safe. Gaby, please. Don’t be stupid about this.”

“Napoleon, I—“ Gaby wants to say no so desperately, wants to slap Napoleon in the face for even thinking it’s option. But they’re stuck, and she has to get Illya out of danger so all of them have a chance to get away.

Gaby feels herself giving in, and Napoleon sighs in relief. “Thank you.”

“What are you doing?” Illya asks suddenly, cutting in while it sounds like he’s reloading his gun. “Gaby, you’re not—”

“It’s the only way, Peril,” Napoleon murmurs, and he seems to be fading already, losing control. He blinks rapidly and shakes his head. “It’s the only way.”

Illya roars in disagreement. “Gaby. You can’t. Gaby!”

But Gaby knows there is no other option. She helps Napoleon to another cell, hoping that he can hide until they find him. She takes the gun from the guard — still sleeping — and locks him in another cell, keeping the key in her pocket.

“Sorry,” she says, when she walks past Napoleon for the last time and puts the earpiece in her ear.

As she sneaks away, she realises she doesn’t know who she apologised to.

 

And they almost make it unscathed.

They almost succeed.

Gaby reaches Illya within a minute, winding her way through hallways with guards all looking the wrong way. She coordinates with Illya, through the brisque orders she’s become so used to over the years. She tries to put the despondent undertone away in her mind, and doesn’t wonder how long it will take Illya to forgive her— if they make it out of here alive at all. They find each other in the courtyard, and rush to the roof, where they have sight over the whole building, and take the guards down around the perimeter, blocking the only gate, the only way to escape.

The place slowly becomes silent, less bullets flying through the air, more men moaning in pain rather than screaming orders to others. It becomes safe enough to double back and find Napoleon — hopefully find Napoleon. He has to be there. He has to be alive. Gaby would never forgive herself—

Illya follows her, and Gaby feels the weight of his fear combining with her own. The guard she had locked up isn’t there anymore, and cold ice seeps into her chest— No, _please._

The cell is empty. Napoleon is gone.

Illya slams his fist against a wall.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Gaby hisses under her breath. Her palms are sweating, and her throat restricts. “Think, think, _think,_ where would they take him. Where would they—“

“Come out come out wherever you are…” Delilah melodic voice makes Gaby jump. “I know you’re looking for something, come get it.”

“Megaphone,” Illya says. “She’s outside.”

Gaby nods. “You take the roof, try to shoot her, maim her, whatever. I’ll flank you on the ground-floor. We’re getting him back.”

 _I’m not leaving him again,_ Gaby adds wordlessly to herself, gritting her jaw and gripping her stolen gun thightly.

Illya nods back, and they head off.

The first thing Gaby sees is Napoleon on his knees. He’s slumped into the dirt by Delilah’s side. The sun streams down around them, making the barrel of the gun against Napoleon’s head glint. Gaby’s first thought is, _thank god, he’s still breathing,_ and her second thought is that the weather doesn’t make sense for the way her body feels frigid inside. Warm air greets her when she takes the first step outside, in the open, hoping that she’ll be able to distract Delilah enough for Illya to take the shot.

She aims for Delilah’s head and walks out into the light. “If you shoot, you’re dead.”

“There you are,” Delilah says, nudging Napoleon’s head with her gun. “Look, it’s your girlfriend. Say hi.”

Napoleon raises a hand, and Gaby is just close enough to see the blood covering it. She flashes her gaze over him and notices a large red stain on his shirt.

“You really have to explain to me how you made those delightful gadgets, Gaby, what I heard from your victim was quite the curiosity.”

“I’ll be glad to,” Gaby says, not moving an inch. “If you let him go.”

“Why should I?” Delilah asks innocently. “I could use a guy like him, and it’s been quite obvious that he’ll do anything to keep you two safe. Self-sacrificing like that Solo? That certainly doesn’t sound like the man I know.”

Gaby doesn’t know what Napoleon says, but it makes Delilah laugh.

“I’m sure he’s going to try, and your trust in him is very admirable, but no one is able to stop me—“

Napoleon says something else, and Gaby moves a little closer, inching forward as Delilah’s eyes widen, trained on Napoleon’s face.

“Is he now? Well that changes things.” Delilah smiles, too many teeth showing.

Gaby freezes when she looks away again, but Delilah doesn’t even seem to notice her, instead turning her megaphone back on.

“A little bird told me we have a celebrity in our midst. зверь, do you hear me? What did you think of my flowers? I want to thank you for all the work you’ve done for me over the years, but I must say I expected better of you. Since when does the beast keep himself busy with deadweight like these two? If you wanted a partner you only had to ask.”

As Delilah talks, Napoleon slowly starts to lean away from her gun. Gaby takes a silent breath, and re-aims, but before she can pull the trigger, there is sudden blast. A red circle forms on the forehead of Delilah’s surprised face, and she topples over, the gun falling to the ground.

“Gaby,” Illya’s voice comes. “Get Napoleon.”

“I’m on it,” Gaby says, and sprints forwards.

Napoleon squints in the sunlight when she reaches him and flinches when she touches his shoulder.

“Solo,” Gaby says, breathlessly, kneeling beside him, “Give me something. Where you are hurt?”

Napoleon relaxes at once, leaning into her hand. “Nice shot, Gabs. I think she’s dead.”

“She is,” Gaby says, not bothering to look at Delilah’s face. She doesn’t deserve a second of attention. “It wasn’t my shot. Illya is on the roof. He got her.”

Napoleon’s head snaps up, blood trails from the corner of his mouth and Gaby’s stomach drops. “Peril killed her?”

Gaby gently pulls Napoleon’s hand away and rips his shirt open. She’s certain Illya’s keeping an eye out for any potential dangers, she needs to focus on keeping Napoleon alive. “Of course he did, she threatened to kill you. Now, show me the damage, please.”

There is a big gash in his side, deep but not enough to make Gaby fear extreme internal damage. The blood around his mouth is caused by a broken nose and maybe a fractured jaw, from the looks of it, but as far as Gaby can determine, it isn’t because of the stabbing. She almost is overwhelmed by a wave of relief when she notices a small pool of blood around them, and a trail of red splatters behind Napoleon, leading back to the building. She frowns, looks at for places where such bloodloss might have originated, and at once she recognises the way Napoleon is leaning to the side.

“Your leg?”

“Yeah,” Napoleon mumbles tiredly, “Got shot, ‘sorry.”

Gaby pushes Napoleon over as best as she can without hurting him more, and sees where the bullet hit his lower thigh. She takes Napoleon’s jacket and ties it tightly around his upper leg, and presses her earpiece to reach Illya.

“He’s shot,” Gaby says. “We—“

“Is he—“

“His leg, through and through, he’s losing blood. We need to go now.”

There is a scuffle, Illya jumping up from his sniper’s perch, and he says fervently, “Keep him alive, Gaby.” A pause, and then smaller, “I— Please. I’m coming.”

Gaby sets her jaw and places her hand on Napoleon’s. “We’re getting you out of here, Solo.”

Napoleon smiles for a second, nods, and then closes his eyes and falls over into Gaby’s arms.

“ _Illya,”_ Gaby spits. _“Hurry.”_

The drive is a blur. Gaby speeds through streets with a mostly unresponsive Napoleon in the back, held upright by an Illya who’s visibly freaking out, leading the tension in the car to be thick enough that Gaby has trouble breathing. She skids into the driveway of the nearest hospital and Illya is out of the car in a flash, carrying Napoleon in his arms as if he’s nothing.

Gaby doesn’t know what she said to the nurses meeting her. She doesn’t know if they held a cover. Everything goes too fast to make sense. She gives the necessary information, his blood type, the drugs they can’t explain, the injuries she’s seen. After a nurse comes a doctor, who asks all the same questions again.

Napoleon is gone. They whisked him away on a gurney with people buzzing around him. Illya has said nothing since Napoleon went down on the courtyard. Illya hasn’t moved since the nurses took Napoleon out of his arms. Gaby wonders fleetingly, crazily, if Illya will ever speak again if Napoleon doesn’t make this out alive. And in the rush of adrenaline and fear, the only answer that makes sense to her is a definite no. It’s what she sees in his eyes right now, in how he doesn’t really seem to be here. Almost as if he’s left her in the waiting room, has disappeared all but in body, and will only get called back by Napoleon.

Gaby tries, tries to reach him. But he doesn’t respond, and Gaby is too tired and too worried to try again. Words hurt, pushing them through her throat is torture, but she knows she needs to put herself back together. She knows that she has to contact Waverly, get them on track with the hospital, the right papers and the right people. He has to know the Ghost is dead, but there might be more of them. They don’t know the extent of this, and they might be in danger still.

But none of that happens; she can’t drag herself to a phone and force the competence she used to have back again. Because Napoleon has collapsed in a pool of his own blood, and the last time that happened she lost her father. Now, she might lose her friend. Now, she might lose her partner, and her other partner too in the grief that will consume them both.

Now, she might lose everything they’ve built, everything that kept her alive, everything that matters.

She knows she has to be Gaby, Gaby Teller, the _agent_ , the leader of a team. But she feels like Gaby the lost little girl, and she doesn’t know how to get out of it. She doesn’t know how to help Illya when she’s lost herself.

It’s Napoleon that calls them back, somehow, with a bullet in his leg and drugs in his system.

It’s Napoleon, as always, that makes them be there again.

A nurse hurries into the waiting room, and Gaby instinctively prepares for the worst. Illya goes pale.

“We need your help,” the nurse says. “This is highly unusual, but due to the substances in his system and the head injury, we didn’t want to risk a full anaesthetic. But he’s come back to consciousness, and he’s having what seems to be an episode, or mental breakdown of some kind. It’s understandable, but dangerous. We need someone to keep him calm, and he’s been asking for a ‘Peril.’”

Illya flinches forward, already half out of his seat before the nurse finished her request. But then he pauses and looks at Gaby. “I can’t do this alone.”

His voice is paper thin, and Gaby has never felt more like crying. She swallows and looks at the nurse. “Can we come both?”

The nurse hesitates and then nods. “You’ll need to dress appropriately. I’ll be getting a second pair of scrubs.” She looks at them both and sighs quietly. “Things are bad now, but he should be able to recover if he stays calm and doesn’t go into shock. That’s not something his body can handle without consequences. So please, keep a clear mind as you go in. If it gets too much, tell me, and get out. We cannot add to the situation.”

Gaby nods tensely and Illya follows. “We’ll help in anyway we can.”

Gaby feels something in her fracture when she gets her first look at Napoleon in the operating room.

They’ve strapped him down. His wrists are straining against the leather bands tying them to the operation table, and Gaby wants to personally throw a scalpel at the person responsible. She grabs Illya by the wrist in reflex, knowing his reaction will be very much the same— but he might actually do it.

“If he’s calm, it won’t be necessary,” the nurse says, following their gaze. There is an inkling of regret in her voice and Gaby is proud of herself that she doesn’t snap at her as moves to Napoleon’s side.

A blue sheet of plastic is strung up vertically from Napoleon’s midriff, so Gaby can’t see what’s going on behind it besides the shadows bending over where Napoleon’s leg should be.

And Napoleon—

Napoleon is speaking, pleading, yelling, in German. Frantic words and mushed up sentences Gaby can’t make sense of save for a few words here and there.

“No— No! He saved me,” Napoleon chokes out. “Rudi— You can’t— You burned— Please— Peril— Please.”

Oh god— Gaby sits down beside Napoleon, and Illya sits on the other side. Napoleon’s eyes are wide, unseeing, and his face is drained of blood. Sweat pearls over his forehead and his breathing is so fast that Gaby worries about his oxygen intake. Napoleon shudders suddenly, tensing his whole body, but he isn’t supposed to feel anything, Gaby doesn’t understand—

“It’s not Rudi, Cowboy,” Illya says briskly. He places a hand against Napoleon’s jaw to draw his gaze.

Napoleon blinks up, fear merging with confusion until he gasps. “Peril?”

“Yes,” Illya says, and swallows. “I’m here. We’re here. He’s dead. You’re not—“ Illya clenches his jaw and continues steadily. “You’re not in pain. What you’re feeling isn’t real. There is no electricity. No chair. Feel my hand, can you feel it?”

Napoleon nods shakely.

“Good,” Illya murmurs. “Does it hurt?”

There is a pause, Napoleon takes a deep breath and then shakes his head. He blinks again, his breathing slowly starting to even out, and when he flickers a look between them, Gaby recognises him again.

“There you are,” Gaby says. “You’re back.”

Napoleon takes another slow breath and nods again. “I’m back.” The fear is still there, and his arms are still shaking against the restraints, but a shaky chuckle comes out of him too, and he murmurs, “Sorry about that.”

Gaby huffs and rolls her eyes. “Don’t you dare. This isn’t something any of us would be capable of handling without some kind of freak out. We only want you to keep calm, Solo. The doctors are busy fixing your leg, but that doesn’t work if you keep trying to run away.”

A shiver ripples through his body but his eyes stay clear, stay present. “Okay. I can do that.”

Illya nods, he hasn’t pulled away his hand yet, and Gaby suspects he won’t until Napoleon demands it.

Gaby looks up to the nurse and says, “He’s calm. Can we get those damn cuffs off?”

The nurse looks at Napoleon with narrowed eyes, who grins as much he’s able, which isn’t much.

“I’m as okay as I can be,” Napoleon says to her, though his voice breaks at the end.

But it seems to be enough for the nurse, who then moves to the side and instructs two assistants to unlock the belts. They keep the things close, Gaby notes, but she’s at least relieved that Napoleon isn’t restained anymore.

Napoleon seems be thinking the same thing, his arms immediately moving away from his sides, as if testing the freedom. He looks at them as they shake in the air, and then drops them again, one on his chest and the other on Illya’s knee.

“Saved me again, huh?” he says to Illya, “How many times is that? Gaby, you’re the one that keeps counting.”

It takes a while, to get the words out, Napoleon has to take a quick breath every two words, but he’s trying, so Gaby digs a calm voice up from somewhere and says, “I only count the times I save you, not Illya’s too, that would be too complicated, seeing that we save you about once every day.”

“I don’t count,” Illya says.

“See, Gaby,” Napoleon says, turning his head to look at her. “That’s what I call manners.”

“I never claimed to have manners, Solo,” Gaby says, trying to sound like they’re not in a operating room, like the sounds of the machines beeping around her aren’t driving her heart rate up with the second, and like the smell of Napoleon’s blood isn’t almost enough to make her want to run, far far away. But she doesn’t let it show, she won’t leave this seat even if the world ended. Napoleon needs her, needs them, and she will be there.

“That is true,” Napoleon says. His eyes flicker to the blue screen for a second before falling away again, swallowing. “Germans,” he adds, disparagingly, or trying to be. His breath hitches and his eyes close.

“Cowboy,” Illya says insistently, “Stay with us, stay calm.”

“It’s harder than it seems—” Napoleon says between breaths, “—you know? Normally I’m asleep during these things.”

Illya looks at Gaby, the helplessness clear in his eyes. His hand still hasn’t left Napoleon’s jaw.

Gaby closes her eyes for a second and breathes, trying to find the one corner in her mind that’s still thinking clearly, and there an idea starts to form. They need to distract Napoleon, and there are only a few ways to do that. As booze and sex aren’t really an option in this situation, this must do—

“Okay, Solo,” Gaby says, with the same inflection she uses right before they start a mission. “This is your one chance in your lifetime. You can ask me anything, and I will answer honestly, for the duration of this horrible event. No limits, no secrets.”

Napoleon’s eyes open, and there, between all the rumbling panic and fear, there is a flash of interest, and Gaby almost wants to cry in relief. There is a long pause, but it’s clear that Napoleon is thinking, carefully, on what he wants to ask.

He licks his lips and says, “What is your most happy childhood memory?”

Gaby blinks, momentarily thrown by the question, but then starts talking despite herself, the words flowing out of her, telling stories of warm Sunday summers and the last days days of school. How endless those vacations had seemed, free to learn, read, and do anything in what was for a child eons of time. She tells him about her mother, when she was still a mother instead of a shell, tells him about the music in the house and about the little jewelry box underneath the bed. She tells him about her father, when he asks, and when her mouth is dry from talking, Illya jumps in, answering Napoleon’s excited questions with short but honest answers, ones that make Napoleon grin.

Gaby learns about Illya’s love of classical music, how he learned to play chess from his mother in the kitchen during school breaks, strange stories about his time training. She hears him flow around the darker aspects to dive in more humorous stories; times he was underestimated and kicked his senior opponents asses, times he’d broken the floorboards by dropping his sparring partner too hard on the floor. He even tells them about their very first missions with them, as UNCLE, and grudgingly confesses about being impressed with Napoleon’s antics during a series of heists they’d had to complete.

Napoleon ends up gleaming more of pride than feverish sweat, so when an assistant informs them the procedure is complete and they’ll be moved to a patient room, Gaby catches Illya’s eye and sends him a proud smile. They succeeded. They fucking did it.

“We’re currently testing his blood to get a more clear overview of what potentially could be in his system and what pain medications we could pair with that,” the nurse says as she leads them in Napoleon’s room, after he’s been set up safely inside. “While we wait on the results, it’s important to keep him awake, for just a bit. When we know more, we’ll let you know.”

Gaby nods at the nurse, but she’s distracted by Illya, who’s standing still in the doorway and takes a shuddering breath. Inside, Napoleon is talking quietly with one of the doctors, nodding along to what he’s saying, but in the light of the room is terrifyingly clear how injured he is. His skin almost has no colour, save for the blue and yellow around his nose and jaw. His face is gaunt, and eyes are dark beneath, and even from here, Gaby can see him shaking— from pain or exhaustion, she doesn’t know.

“Illya,” Gaby says softly, nudging him when the nurse leaves and Illya still doesn’t move. “Get some water and maybe some food for us. A coffee would help too. We’ll need it. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

Illya turns to look at her, hesitating between staying by Napoleon’s side and taking the minute out she’s given him.

“He’s safer than he was moments ago, take a breather,” Gaby tells him. “It was—” She sighs, “—it was heavy for all of us. After you’re back, I’m taking a smoke.”

Illya huffs, a hint of disapproval that Gaby treasures, anything is better than the numbness or the terror he’s been pinned between for the last hours.

“Tell him I’ll be back,” Illya says.

Gaby smiles. “I will.”

They part, and Napoleon greets her tiredly. The doctor leaves a moment later, repeating the same instructions the nurse had told them, adding, “It shouldn’t be much longer, and from how Mr Solo is now, I’m fairly sure it should all be fine.”

“Thank you,” Gaby says. “We’ll be waiting.”

The door closes behind him and Napoleon collapses back into the mattress, slumping as if he’s spend all his energy keeping himself upright in front of the doctor. Gaby is worried by his exhaustion, despite the fact that it’s fully logical seeing the circumstances, but it’s just a strange thing to see Napoleon be so vulnerable in front of her. Even in the most dire situations, he usually covers most of his ailings in composure and charm, but now, it seems like he doesn’t even have that energy to spare. Or maybe, Gaby hopes, he knows he doesn’t have to, and as such doesn’t have to waste it.

Napoleon closes his eyes with a hefty sigh, and Gaby reaches forward and rubs her thumb over Napoleon’s sweaty forehead. “Stay with us, Solo.”

Napoleon blinks his eyes open with effort, and smiles a little. “Hey Gabs,” he says softly. “How are you this fine evening?”

Gaby tries to smile with him. “I’m fine. You on the other hand, are a mess.” She makes a show of looking at him with a disapproving expression, as if she’s judging his attire for a formal event.

Napoleon smiles back first, and then quiets for a moment, a few labored breaths pass before he frowns at her, the smile slipping of his face. “No, you’re not,” he murmurs, and despite his fatigue, he seems to see right through her. “You’re not fine. You haven’t been since—" Napoleon grabs her hand and squeezes weakly. “I’m sorry, Gaby. I’m sorry.”

“Solo, don’t worry about it now. You—” Gaby swallows, tears start to gather behind her eyes. “You have nothing to apologise for.”

Napoleon shakes his head. “You— you shouldn’t be alone in this, for so long. We failed you.”

Gaby squeezes back and looks away, trying to gather herself. The silence stretches, and she’s almost worried that Napoleon has fallen asleep during her inability to find a response to— to _that_. But he’s just staring out of the window, rain pouring down the building, the sounds of it only now seeping into Gaby’s consciousness.

Gaby hasn’t said anything by the time Illya opens the door and sits down next to them. He passes a coffee cup to Gaby and stares at their joined hands when it catches his eye.

“Peril!” Napoleon says with tired delight, immediately letting Gaby go to place his hand on Illya’s knee. “You didn’t leave!”

Gaby hides a grimace by taking a sip of her too-hot coffee, scolding herself for not telling Napoleon like she’d promised Illya. In Napoleon’s state, he’s bound to think that they’d just leave him, like the idiot he sometimes can be.

“I won’t leave, Cowboy,” Illya says gravely, so sincere that it makes Gaby shiver. “I won’t leave you until you want me to.”

“Oh, that’s good then,” Napoleon says around a yawn. “I don’t want you to.”

Illya closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “So I stay.”

“So you’ll stay,” Napoleon murmurs, burying himself back into the hospital bed.

They wait together, quiet, as if they’d run out of words. The coffee has just disappeared when the door opens again, the same doctor from before enters, with two nurses following him. They get to work while the doctor explains that Napoleon is allowed to start taking pain medication and asks them to leave so the patient can rest.

“Can they stay until I fall asleep?” Napoleon asks, looking the doctor in the eye. “I would like for them to stay.”

The doctor sighs, and rubs his face, for a moment. “I suppose in such circumstances we could bend the rules for another single moment, but that will be the last time.”

“Of course,” Gaby says, sitting back down again. Illya hadn’t even left his seat.

“A nurse will bring you back to the waiting rooms once Mr Solo is asleep,” the doctor says. He slips out of the door again with a final, “Good night,” and the nurses leave soon after.

Napoleon closes his eyes, and the seconds tick by as they wait for the painkillers to kick in. Gaby hopes that the anesthetic had dulled over most of the pain, but she knows that the bullet wound isn’t the only damage Napoleon is dealing with, the nurses have patched him up as well as they can, but she’s seen the bruises and cuts for herself, and she can’t imagine Napoleon having been comfortable for a moment the last hours.

Just when Gaby thinks Napoleon has finally fallen asleep, his eyes snap open again, gasping. Illya is by his side at once, and Napoleon grasps his hand. “Peril— I need to teach you the steps— of the dance. I promised Gaby to teach you. It was a bet. I need to teach you, Peril. I need you—“

Napoleon slumps down again, mumbling softly, until his hand falls loose from Illya and his breathing slows.

Illya looks away from him and turns with an expression full of concern and confusion at Gaby.

Gaby sighs, and shakes her head fondly. “I bet him months ago that I’d make him an exploding pen if he’d taught you the waltz. So far, he hasn’t done it yet.” Gaby smiles at Napoleon’s sleeping form and adds, ”Though why he decided it was important now, I have no idea. Good painkillers, I suppose.”

Once Napoleon is finally resting, Illya and Gaby are lead back to the waiting room. The suggestion from the nurse that they should look for a hotel in the area is immediately shut down by Illya’s glare, as he sits back down on the chair closest to the hall that leads to Napoleon, and stubbornly crosses his arms.

Gaby huffs and finds a place for herself. “I guess we’re staying.”

The nurse nods, and walks away without another word. Gaby takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, as much as she can, while the adrenaline of the day slowly starts to pour out of her. Her heart rate gradually evens to normal, and though her mind is too exhausted to put up much of a fight, any horrible memories of the day are kept at bay for now by Napoleon’s smile just a few moments ago. The worst has passed.

Gaby stretches and as she feels herself get back into the now again, she starts to feel all aches and pains the emergency situation had kept at bay. Her ear has long before stopped bleeding, but when she touches the cut it throbs a bit, and the area around it is still itchy from the head caps they’d had to wear in the operation room. There are bruises all over her knees and a few in her side, and as Gaby inspects herself carefully, the stinging of her dress against the taser’s burn wound comes into her attention. She sighs, knowing she wouldn’t be able to sleep well if she doesn’t deal with it right now. As she walks past Illya to search for a nurse, she suddenly halts by his feet, remembering.

“You were hit too,” Gaby says, and Illya jumps up from where ever he had been and stares at her.

“During the shoot out. A scrape, you said.”

Illya grimances and looks away. “It’s nothing.”

“Illya,” Gaby only says, infusing the single word with the most frustration and annoyance she can muster.

Illya huffs and then finally pulls at the left trouser leg, pushing away the fabric until a wound is revealed. Small, like he said, the damaged skin is about the size of Gaby’s thumb. Blood is already caked around it and it isn’t deep, not enough to halt an agent of his caliber— if it doesn’t get infected, that is.

“I’m going to get some disinfectant and bandages,” Gaby says when she’s done checking. “And you’re going to use it, no complaining, and then you’re going to sleep. We’re going to need it.”

Gaby doesn’t wait on a response; he can refuse or protest as much as he wants, but there is still a little fire burning in her chest, and seeing as she can’t go pursue whoever might have been working with Delilah, bullying Illya into good health is the one option to focus on.

It takes a little searching and cajoling, but eventually they’re both bandaged up and even gifted a few blankets by a decidedly more nice nurse who passes by. Gaby gets comfortable as much she’s able, and finally falls into a much needed sleep, while Illya keeps watch, staring into nothing.

In Gaby’s dreams, floorboards are covered in blood. Her father barely fits in a large blue chest, streaked with red. She closes it, a scream stuck in her throat, but terror takes over when she realises she abandoned her father, and she opens the chest again. Her father is gone. Instead, two men lie dead inside, holding hands. Gaby is only small, she doesn’t know these men, but she knows that their death will break her. The floorboards shatter, and she wakes.

Gaby blinks her eyes open, her heart beating fast, as she tries to make sense of the darkness around her. Illya is slumped against the wall, almost snoring, and memories rush back in. The hospital. Napoleon is okay. She falls asleep again moments later, and doesn’t remember her dreams, washed away by the relief of reality.

Gaby snaps awake at the sound of a door being slammed against the wall. She rises, the blur of sleep leaving her vision enough to see Illya being marched into the waiting room by two male nurses, who seem to be hanging onto Illya more than the other way around.

“What’s going on?” Gaby says around a yawn, and then notes Illya’s furious expression and worry jostles sharply in her stomach. “Illya?”

“They wouldn’t let me see him,” Illya snaps, tone thunderous, almost a growl.

“Mister Solo is stable but visitors are not allowed outside visiting hours.” The male nurse informs them shakily, glancing at Illya as if he expects to be punched.

Gaby sighs. “Illya…”

“They say he’s okay but they won’t show him,” Illya snaps. “They could be lying.”

“Paranoia in a hospital does no one any good,” Gaby informs him, crossing her arms and shaking her head. “It wouldn’t help Napoleon if you landed in the psych ward before he’s awake.”

Gaby redirects her attention to the nurse trying to sneak away. “When do visiting hours start?”

“In about three hours,” the nurse squeaks, frozen in place.

“See Illya,” Gaby says, motioning her hand from the terrified nurse to him, “It helps to ask before starting to punch people.”

“I didn’t punch anyone,” Illya says, looking away from her to glare intensely at a point on the wall beside her head.

“Oh, well,” Gaby says, raising an eyebrow. “What did you do then?”

“He kicked in a door!” A shrill voice interjects, and a frayed middle-aged nurse bursts in and points a trembling angry finger at Illya. “He tried to force into the room while the patient was sleeping! Such behaviour should get him banned! I will—“

“That will only make him sneak back in through a window,” Gaby interrupts her calmly. “And that would be a surprise for the resident in the room.” Gaby shakes her head and speaks as if it’s already decided, forcing authority behind each word. “No, Mister Kuryakin is going to to behave himself from now on. We’ll wait patiently for three hours until we’re allowed to check on our friend. Isn’t that right, Illya?”

Illya huffs and drops stiffly into a plastic chair.

Gaby looks at the frayed nurse and says, “That means ‘yes’ in Russian. Some tea for the long wait would be appreciated.”

The nurse gapes as if she’s cut off her air supply. The two male nurses use the commotion to finally flee. After a moment of gaping like a fish, she finally nods when Gaby clears her throat impatiently.

“He is your responsibility,” the nurse informs her primly, at last, and turns around march out of the waiting room. Gaby wonders if they’ll get their tea, and chuckles to herself while she sits back down. Napoleon would’ve been proud at that performance, and she makes a mental note to tell him about it once visiting hours have arrived.

Illya doesn’t seem to have noticed Gaby’s success of keeping him from being banned. He’s back to staring again, and Gaby feels the stress radiating off of him.

Seeing Illya being so on edge, aggressive, leaves Gaby slightly confused. For all that’s happened, there is no reason to kick doors in at this moment, and though she also feels impatient to leave this building and go home, throwing a tantrum won’t get them there.

She hasn’t slept very well in the cramped chairs, but a bit of energy does wonders alongside the knowledge that Napoleon is in relative good health. Gaby would have thought Illya’d be glad about it too, be able to release a bit of the tension running through his body, waking up with fresh memories of Napoleon being okay, and from what he said, getting the confirmation from medical professionals too. But instead he’d felt the need to force himself through the halls to see Napoleon himself, and act out on the people caring for him.

Gaby doesn’t understand why Illya seems just like he was when Napoleon was in surgery, that drained anxiety borne immune danger. He’s gone silent again, frozen in his seat, but Gaby can see the stress running through him, maybe because of the unnatural stillness— no trembling hands, fidgeting, or glaring at those who dare to pass by. He’s just staring at the hall where Napoleon lays behind, suspended in time until he gets the go-ahead.

Gaby doesn’t understand why Illya isn’t feeling the slow building wave of relief like she is.

Now that Napoleon isn’t on death’s door and he’s capable hands to keep him that way, Gaby can recognise how close it had been. She can feel the satisfaction on getting out of a horrible situation, and she feels a new kind of warmness from the memories of standing by Napoleon’s side and keeping him calm when it was needed most. Gaby can see the mistakes they made that led them to this point, and the back of her mind is already starting to formulate ideas and rules for the future, so they’ll never endanger Napoleon like that again.

Time works again, now that every second isn’t a potential last breath. Gaby envisions the coming weeks with clarity: she’ll need to contact Waverly soon, make sure they’ll get enough time off to recover as a team. She’ll ask Agent Moss for a good physical therapist in the area to help Napoleon recover— and maybe the other kind of therapist too. There are elevators in the Hotel and the Headquarters and she’ll ask Marian for a favour; she could drive Napoleon around whenever he wants to, without having to overexert himself.

There are so many things she can think off, so many ways things will only be getting better.

Gaby wants to share these plans with Illya, make him see the same eager reality that will greet them when they get home. She wants to assure him that they’ll learn from this and won’t ever let this happen again, but as Illya stares and stares at the door, she realises that he won’t hear it. He won’t be able to _see_ it.

Where her world has spread before her, Illya’s world is still confined to one small bedroom in a quiet hospital in France, waiting tensely as if Napoleon is still in danger, being operated on this second, the outcome uncertain.

Gaby realises Illya is acting as if there is still an emergency, and suddenly the quiet pieces of behaviour she’s been collecting without knowing, reveal themselves and fall into place. Ever since UNCLE, ever since they became a real team, there had been something— something unexplainable, something strange, something she needed to work around but couldn’t quite figure out — about him that would tug at her thoughts strangely, and be forgotten again in the chaos of their daily life. But now, in the face of Illya’s desperation, and with the memories of last night, Gaby suddenly knows why Illya’s acting the way he is.

Because, for Illya, Napoleon being hurt and out of his sight is emergency enough. Because, for Illya, there is something more, something more than a partnership lurking behind his actions. Gaby looks at him, taking him in now she knows what she should have known, and wonders if Illya knows.

Illya sees her watching and turns around, and his eyes— The pain in them. The fear in them.

He knows.

“Illya,” Gaby says, barely recognises her own voice. “Illya,” she says again, at a loss what else to say. She hurts for him, because it’s clear he hurts too. 

Illya closes his eyes and turns his head away. He knows she knows. They know.

This is the very first silence between them that feels cold, Gaby thinks. She didn’t realise how warm Illya’s quiet company usually is, not until now, when everything suddenly feels icy and sharp. Illya is curled into himself, and he’s twisted away from her, almost protective, as if he’s expecting her to be mad. There is something almost child-like about him now, that terror born from experience. He’s not looking at her anymore, but Gaby gets the sense that he’d look terrified of her if he did.

Gaby swallows. Gaby feels sick. She’s never had anyone be scared of her before, not like this, and she doesn’t know what to say, what to do, in order to make this better. In order to have Illya look at her again. In the end, she tries for the most direct. She has no mastery of words like Napoleon has, and she can’t imagine what Napoleon would say in this instance as guideline because it’s _about_ him.

“Illya,” Gaby says quietly. “There is no reason—” _to be afraid of me._ But the words can’t come out. Because that isn’t true. She doesn’t know what the exact guidelines are of UNCLE, and has no inclination on how Waverley would react to this, but there is enough chance that Illya’d could get into trouble if she’d ever tell anyone, certainly if it came back to Oleg. Gaby shivers at the thought and clears her throat. She tries again.

“I’m not surprised,” she ends up saying. “I think I’ve always known this— about you, and him. I just never recognized it. Never really thought about it. It seemed– it seemed almost logical. It seems logical now.”

And it does. It really does. In her travels around the Germany trying to flee from the ghost of her mother and her then still lost father, she’s met people that lived outside societies rigid edges. She’s made friends that would others consider detestable, and even felt that same quiver of interest towards women, allowing herself to look and touch in an environment where that wasn’t frowned upon, or even hated. So the concept itself isn’t strange, to her, it’s only the environment it’s held in.

Agencies are all but an extension of the military, and Gaby had known she’d had have to leave that life behind the moment she agreed to Waverly’s proposition. So that now it turns out she isn’t alone in this, is the only thing gripping her into awkward phrases. That an agent from Russia, of all places, belongs to a subset of people she’d had to forget for this work, is almost overwhelming to her. But those same expectations had made her blind to what was right in front of her all along, and she really isn’t surprised. She can’t be, with everything she saw. From Illya’s protective rage to Napoleon’s desperate pleading for Illya’s presence yesterday, when he was too scared to put on any mask before them.

“Are you going to tell him?” Gaby asks finally. Because however obvious it is now in her eyes, she knows both of them almost better than herself, and the chance they’ve got themself stuck in stubborn silence is very high.

Where Illya slowly started to relax at her stuttering words, it’s now sucked out of him, and he tenses as if he’s making himself up for combat, as if he’s being attacked.

“You cannot tell him.”

He speaks harshly, and despite knowing that this anger and fear isn’t for her, Gaby can’t help but flinch back.

“Illya—“

“No—“ Illya snaps, and cuts himself off. He breathes once, twice, and the fury flows out of him, being replaced with pure, pleading desperation.“You cannot tell him. Promise me, Gaby. You—“ He stops again, and then continues as if he has to pull the words from his throat with a knife. “You can’t ruin this for me.”

Gaby looks away from him. She can’t help it. His expression hurts too much. “Who says it will ruin anything? Napoleon— You saw him yesterday, Illya. He doesn’t always treat you like a partner either. Hasn’t done from the start. You should tell him.”

“ _Nyet,_ ” Illya says, and Gaby shivers. His accent is another reference point to where his mental state is at. This— this isn’t good.

“We work, us three, we work right now— We are a good team, balanced. You can’t predict Solo’s reaction, there is no certainty. It can ruin everything. I can ruin everything.”

“Illya.”

Illya shuffles closer, sitting down on the chair beside her. Gaby’s gaze is drawn by the movement and she waits as Illya crushes his fingers in his lap.

“Gaby, please,” Illya says quietly. “I can’t go back to Russia. This team, you, Napoleon, it keeps me here. It keeps me whole. I cannot go back to Russia. You understand?”

Gaby swallows. “I understand Illya, but you won’t be—“

Illya silences her with another shake of his head, and suddenly he stares into her eyes, intense and focused— pleading. “I cannot go back to Russia, but if Napoleon asks me to leave, I will. If there is discomfort with my— I will go. Gaby, I cannot go back, but if he knows and if he—“ His eyes become red and his face turns pale. Gaby closes her eyes and takes a shuddering breath.

“I will go. Please. Don’t tell him. He can’t know. Do you understand?”

“I understand.” Gaby leans forward and puts her head in her hands. This isn’t her decision to make. She can’t force this on Illya; she knows how scary this is. But she can’t help but think that by agreeing, she’s putting him in so much more misery than he deserves, than the both of them deserve. And yet, there is nothing else to say. “I won’t tell him.”

Illya lets out a shaky breath and the silence stays that way. Not cold anymore, not painful. But it isn’t warm either, not the comfortable blankets of quiet she’s now so desperate for. It feels empty, and Gaby can only hope that with time, Illya will feel like himself again around her, now that she knows. She hopes that she’ll find the right things to say one day, and maybe even help him in the right direction, without betraying one of the best friends she has.

Five long days later, they’re allowed to leave.

While Illya carries Napoleon’s suitcases without Napoleon having to ask, Gaby pushes the wheelchair through the airport halls. She walks just fast enough to make Napoleon laugh and Illya huff as he tries to keep up while hauling the cargo. Gaby feels his glare like a missile target burning on her back, but she picks up speed as they come closer to their boarding gate, because everything that keeps Napoleon in high spirits is good in her book.

He’s been good with it so far, hiding the true frustration of his newfound weaknesses in jokes and laughs. When they wheeled the chair into his hospital room, Napoleon hadn’t even put up the protest Gaby had been prepared to argue against. Instead, Napoleon had pouted at Illya and said, “What Peril, no piggy back rides? You betray me.”

The small private jet Waverly had send taxies in just as they reach the brancard. The latch opens and a few agents step outside, Gaby recognises Lavender in the fray as they secure the perimeter around them. Agent Moss steps out of the plane next, fully armed underneath her dark blue suit.

“We’re getting the celebrity treatment here,” Napoleon says. “I should get shot more often.”

Illya tenses at that, and Gaby represses the urge to swat Napoleon on the head.

Moss inspects them all with eagle-eyes, an air of concern around her as she stills at Napoleon. She looks as shaken Gaby has ever seen her, which is to say she looks barely affected save for a crease on her forehead — but for her that might as well be a gasp of shock. “Waverly sends you all his well wishes and would like to see you himself after you’ve arrived and gotten comfortable in the Hotel.” She motions to the plane. “Are you ready to go?”

Gaby nods and together with the help of Moss and Illya, they get Napoleon inside without much trouble

She releases a deep sigh once they’re up in the air. Napoleon is already falling asleep across from her, feet propped up on the chair next to her, exhausted from the move from the hospital. Illya keeps a watchful eye from beside him, making sure he doesn’t fall as the plane goes through turbulence. Gaby closes her eyes. Wounds will have to heal, devices will have to be repaired, words will have to be found and mentalities will have to be rebuild. They survived the worst of it, Napoleon survived the worst of it, but they’re far from fine. They’ll all need time. Gaby has never been this eager to go home.

It will all get better, once they are home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also disclaimer: I know absolutely nothing about medical procedures, so everything is based on artistic liberty and the power of angst ;P Sorry for all the inaccuracies. 
> 
> Hope you liked/survived that one! See you around the end of may :D I'll miss y'all <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi yall! Long time no see! I survived exam season mostly in tact and in the weeks after that I've been catching up on the rest of my life, including sleep and this fic. I hope y'all can forgive me that my 'end of may' estimation was a few days off ;) 
> 
> WARNING for this chapter: a scene where the POV character goes through a panic attack. I've had it proofread and it's heavy but shouldn't be too much to really fuck with you. 
> 
> Though, if you're sensitive for that kind of thing, I'd recommend taking the time to read this chapter in one go. It all gets resolved at the end and the character feels better, but the chapter is 12k in total so maybe not start this 30 min before work :p. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this monster, I missed you all so much!

There is a certain honesty in feeling the life flowing out of your body, of losing the tenuous grasp on breath and clarity. There is a certain honesty in dying, in being ripped to shreds and priorities following suit. Inner construction, years of careful control, destroyed in a single eternity of fear and pain. Napoleon had been hurting, trapped, and drugged, so every fibre in him had wanted Illya.

This, even after two hellish weeks, hasn’t stopped. If anything, it’s gotten worse.

As if somehow, when he got put together again on that operation table, a piece of Illya’s presence got sewed into the wounds, that warmth made of safety and relief, a home built by a light smile even in the worst of circumstances. There could be inferno around them, flames licking up his caves and into the house, and Napoleon would gladly lead Illya inside anyway, eagerly offering a mind burning, just so he can selfishly wallow in the painless warmth of him again. Safety, trust, necessity, all together forming something haunting Napoleon every second since. Napoleon tries to drown it in sleepless nights and long days of training. He tries to push it away by staring into nothing and pretending his thoughts match the ceiling’s surface: blank, still, and not dangerous at all.

Because he knows this doesn’t work that way. He doesn’t work this way. They don’t. Even if the world turned differently and Illya could see him a fraction of the way Napoleon sees him, Napoleon can’t offer someone ruins and expect a safe-haven in response. Illya doesn’t deserve the burden of fixing him, as it is not his to carry, as it is not something that will ever happen in any realm of reality.

Napoleon had accepted this a long time ago, and had made peace with the pieces he’s made up from even years before that. He had been fine as a shell of a man keeping everything inside. A maskbuilder, a way to escape his ruins the way others should have done. Napoleon had been fine with it all, but now the edges suddenly feel raw and heavy, and the masks start to pierce through his skin like poison, while his fake smiles cut his cheeks, bleeding a simile of happiness, a farce of control. He can’t keep himself together anymore, like the broken parts of him don’t line up as they once did; the ridges weathered with age and decayed by neglect. Napoleon can feel the pain of them now, the tight sensation in his chest and the nausea crawls through his skull. The sickness grows outside of his body, somehow deeper inside and farther away at the same time.

Napoleon doesn’t know how he survived years of living with these scars, while now, there are days even breathing feels like too much of a task.

There is a certain honesty in almost dying, and Napoleon learns that his truth hurts more than all his physical wounds combined.

Napoleon depended on keeping his distance, so he could use the space to build borders again, constrict his wants and needs in nicely structured practicality. Reality, for him. He is sure he would have succeeded in a matter of weeks if it wasn’t virtually impossible to avoid Illya.

They’d been all given a few weeks of retroactive vacation time, coinciding with Napoleon’s recovery neatly. But instead of using that time to recharge on his own or bother Gaby in her workshop, Illya keeps to Napoleon’s side, as company or as caretaker, a helping hand or a relaxed conversation over the dinner table. It’s as if his recovery status gives him unfeathered access to Illya’s attention. Napoleon would have given everything for this before his resolve broke, he’d been wishing for it in his weaker moments and dreaming it when his subconscious took charge.

But now that it’s actually happening, the bittersweet burn of Illya hurts more than he ever knew a mental wound could. While the bullet wound in Napoleon’s leg slowly closes and the cut in his abdomen loses the red around it, every soft touch or gentle smile tears Napoleon in half again and again, and there is nowhere to run, because no matter how much he knows he needs to, there is no way he can step away from Illya without his request.

So Napoleon suffers gladly as Illya changes the bandages late at night. Swallows confessions, questions, promises as Illya hovers next to him in the kitchen, his hand ghosting Napoleon’s waist; ready to stabilise him if he threatens to fall. Napoleon watches Illya enjoy the first dish Napoleon made since the Ghost took him down. But he doesn’t wonder if this is the life he has wanted since Berlin, but will never have. His recovery is a ticking time bomb, and the moment he’s healed, he’ll lose this. He needs to be prepared.

Illya’s behaviour isn’t surprising, as much it shocks Napoleon still. Illya becomes attentive and caring whenever one of them is hurt, it’s one of the fundamentals of their team. Napoleon has experienced it before after other meetings with weapons and enemies, and he’s seen the grudging acceptance in Gaby after her sustained wounds. Illya’s loyalty extends beyond the bounds of battle and missions. To Illya, they’re his partners in every second of the day. Illya’s sharp edges soften when one of his partners is hurt; there is nothing he won’t do, and he never complains.

It’s as humbling as it is inevitable, Napoleon learned quickly that refusing his help leads to a blank expression Napoleon never wants to see again. Illya doesn’t demand his help be accepted, it’s not like that, but there is this helplessness in his eyes whenever he can’t be useful and help his friends.

Napoleon refuses once, a few days after they’d settled in the Hotel. His leg aches, but he pushes through the pain, not wanting to give in to his weakness now, after he’d had to explain to Waverly what had happened during the mission. Humiliation runs through him like devil’s breath, uselessly: he knows that feeling this way about an injury would only lead to more stress, which only makes the frustration with himself stronger.

Napoleon grits his teeth, ignoring the wheelchair abandoned by the sofa, and Gaby and Illya watching him with various disapproving expressions, and starts to hop his way to his room. Pathetically, having to lean against the wall and catch his breath after every step.

A few feet into the living room, Napoleon hears movement beside him, and he knows it’s Illya, coming to support a hurt partner, out of pity, out of duty. His frustration takes on a new target. He twists around, ignoring the flare in his side, and spits, “Don’t _touch me,_ ” before Illya has the chance to—

Napoleon knows he’s made a mistake the moment he sees Illya’s face.

Determination and disapproval shatters into pieces. Illya flinches back, his hands flash fast away from Napoleon as if he’s burned them. Confusion flickers starkly across Illya’s features followed by hurt, until there is nothing. Blank. His expression so horrifyingly unreadable that it makes Napoleon’s stomach drop to his feet. Despondent and tight-lipped, Illya turns around and stalks out of the living room. Napoleon reads no anger in his shoulder line, no frustration in his steps. There is nothing he can grasp onto, read into. As if Illya left before his body did, and Napoleon doesn’t know why.

Illya doesn’t slam the door behind him like he usually does after Napoleon does something wrong, which makes it catastrophically worse. Without the emotion within a forcefully closed conflict, the soft click of the locks feels like an earthquake in absence, the ground disappearing from beneath Napoleon’s feet.

“He was like that when you were in surgery,” Gaby comments eventually, seconds or eons later, giving Napoleon more that he wanted to know. “He’s been better lately.”

Napoleon shudders, imagining Illya like that — like nothing — for hours, because _he_ had had the potentiality to die.

Napoleon knows Illya blames himself for not protecting his partners well enough, and his caring almost seems like an attempt of repaying, an apology neither Gaby nor Napoleon ever asked of him.

But if Napoleon hadn’t survived the operation, that blame would have increased tenfold, if not more. Napoleon almost goes breathless with it, and a certain determination he’d lost long ago resurfaces through the pain. He shed lost his tendency for recklessness, after he’d realised Illya actually wasn’t going to kill him, but as much he values his survival, death is something he’s accepted as a reasonable outcome, much sooner than a normal person of his age would.

But the idea of Illya becoming a ghost of himself out of misplaced guilt makes Napoleon stop in his tracks. He has to be more careful, take his life more seriously, and only accept death if it’s outside of Illya’s immediate sphere of influence. Because he’s not going to accept ruining Illya’s life by ruining his own. There is more at stake than just himself.

Napoleon doesn’t refuse help after that anymore. He rationalises his continuous failure to distance himself from Illya as something that Illya needs, to recover from seeing his partner go down. He lets Illya draw comfort from the proof of his recovery: be it his pulse under his fingertips or checking the wounds more than even his doctor demands to. He lets Illya support him through the halls of the Hotel, leans against his side through walks in the park. Because it isn’t Illya’s fault that it burns the soul out of Napoleon, makes him hungry for a masterpiece that doesn’t exist.

Napoleon learns the sound of Illya gently waking him like he knows the feeling of brushstrokes on canvas. He feels the fleeting touches like the shadows in his old work; never quite right, never everything he wanted them to be.

Napoleon collects all the parts of his unattainable ambition, but he’s learned from his past. He is no master, and in this he won’t even lower himself to try. It would break their friendship, and the inevitable rejection would break him. He doesn’t know if it’s selfish to stay silent, lie by omission in the face of Illya’s honest presence. Though it must be more selfish to demand more of Illya than he ever intended to give. So he suffers through, collecting, watching, cherishing, for however long it lasts.

———

While Illya stays near, Napoleon finds little ways to keep his sanity. He finds himself sketching again.

In the nearby park, he draws the people around them, the quiet nature and it’s summer skies. In the Hotel he draws Gaby working, bent over her workshop table with a pencil behind her ear and brows furrowed in concentration. He draws the flowers in the flower shop, the water feature in the lobby, Waverly holding a teacup aloft in the air while talking animatedly. He draws everything he can think of, everyone he sees— except Illya. He doesn’t draw Illya once.

Illya must have noticed; Napoleon catches him sneaking looks over his shoulder. Sometimes he has a comment ready, other times he asks Napoleon to draw something. A building here, a lily pond there. But he never comments on his own absence in Napoleon’s growing repertoire, and Napoleon doesn’t say anything either. He doesn’t even seem surprised about Napoleon’s sudden penchant for drawing, it’s Gaby who asks the questions.

They’ve situated themselves on a terrace of a cafe nearby the Hotel. Napoleon is exhausted from the short walk. Illya hadn’t offered support, saving Napoleon the torture of having to refuse it. With his crutches, his doctor had recommended some movement, building the muscles back up in his healthy leg so he can support the injury in time. Despite Napoleon’s satisfaction he’s made it by himself, a tightness in his chest reminds him of how soon it will be until Illya deems him capable enough to stop— to stop being there.

Napoleon orders a cold glass of water when the waiter comes, not listening to Gaby’s and Illya’s orders as he stares out onto the road, cars and people shuffling by every once in a while. The pace of the town is slow, as if the heat left everyone heavy and tired. Napoleon feels it, distantly, his suit jacket sticking to his arms, but inside he’s cold with dread. It won’t be long until he’s alone again, and he doesn’t know if he’s able to handle it. He doesn’t know how to be himself anymore.

Gaby draws his attention with a raised eyebrow, sucking through a purple straw, a lemon slice on the rim of her glass. Napoleon hadn’t even noticed the waiter coming back, lost in thought.

He takes a long drink from his water, hoping the chill will bring him back from his stupor. He reaches for the small sketchbook in his inside jacket pocket, and tries to find a pencil for a minute, realising he forgot to bring one the second Illya reaches over and puts one in his hand. Napoleon represses the urge to close his eyes and _breathe,_ but he grins instead and says, “A regular boy-scout aren’t you, Peril.”

“A better man would say thank you,” Illya replies, sipping something Napoleon doesn’t recognise. Napoleon forces himself to look away from his lips.

“But you are not,” Illya continues lightly. “You always forget to take a pencil with you, Cowboy, you’d think you would learn.”

“Why would I need to learn when I know you have one anyway?” Napoleon shoots back with a shit-eating grin. It’s mostly genuine.

Illya huffs and shakes his head, sending a commiserating look to Gaby, who is watching Napoleon with narrowed eyes. Napoleon tones down his grin to something more casual and tries to relax his body, but he knows it won’t work. Something changed after his stay at the hospital, and Gaby seems to see through any of his attempts to hide the gaping holes in his composure.

Gaby puts her glass away and Napoleon prepares himself for an interrogation where he would inevitably rip his poisonous heart out and place it on the table. For Gaby and Illya to see and gawk at, for their faces to draw tight in disgust and confusion. Because Napoleon doesn’t know how to talk around his mines anymore, everything is too tangled with Illya and buried too close to the surface. One wrong question and he will break, and he can’t run. He can’t fucking run.

But instead Gaby says, “I didn’t know you could draw so well, Solo. When did you learn?”

“I’ve drawn since I was a child,” Napoleon says, hoping honesty will cover his relief. His heart throbs with adrenaline and he avoids looking Illya in the eye, afraid only a look will ruin his control. “I learned studying the classical painters, actually. Sketching is more of a necessity to be able to paint, so I taught it myself when I was around 8.”

“You paint?” Illya asks, straightening in his chair, out of surprise or interest. Napoleon can’t tell from the corner of his eye.

“I used to paint,” Napoleon corrects him. “I haven’t since— I haven’t painted for a long time. Never really fit into the schedule of a spy.” Napoleon chuckles, bitter even to his own ears. “I suppose it does now, but I don’t have any supplies and I don’t think there is a studio in the Hotel.”

“Would you like to paint again?” Illya asks, curiosity colouring his question.

 _No—_ Napoleon feels the resistance in his gut. _No, I stopped for a reason. I failed. I’ll never succeed. It doesn’t matter._ The wave of frustration is almost nostalgic, a kind of hate he’d forgotten over the years. Illya is watching him, his frown growing the longer he doesn’t respond, so Napoleon pushes the feeling away and shrugs, “I suppose so, didn’t really think of it.”

The conversation flows from that, with Napoleon attempting to lead Gaby away from her intrusive questions of his past, to a more academic discussion of different painters and their respective styles. It works, after a little while, but it doesn’t escape Napoleon that Gaby notices his unwillingness to speak openly. Napoleon knows that in time, he’ll hear from her again.

While they’re talking, Illya seems quiet, lost in thought. Napoleon doesn’t know how to feel about the reprieve so he tries to feel nothing, stay neutral in the face of uncertainty. At night, possibilities rake through his mind, preventing him from sleeping. The probability Napoleon betrayed himself is minimal, he doesn’t think he has done anything incriminating, but he doesn’t trust himself to know either. Maybe Illya knows and will keep it to himself, let Napoleon wallow in the disquiet until the team meets it end.

Or maybe it’s something else, something Napoleon can’t even think of, something worse. Napoleon falls into a troubled sleep, nightmares plaguing him: Rudi’s smile flickers over Ginger’s face. John dies, clutching the wound in his shoulder, before his face becomes Illya’s, drained of colour in pain. “ _Cowboy_ ,” Illya rasps, “ _This is your doing. You know better_.”

Napoleon jumps awake, his broken reply dying on his lips. _I know. I’m sorry. I love you._

The night turns into dawn in a dragging, endless pace. Napoleon stares into nothing, pushing everything deeply away. When he forces himself out of bed, he’s almost convinced himself that he doesn’t remember the confession he made in the darkness of his mind. But when Illya comes into the living room, hauling in boxes of art supplies, that flimsy shell of denial comes crashing down around him.

 _Oh god,_ Napoleon thinks, as he tries to scramble words of thanks together. _Oh god. I love him._

Illya smiles at his stuttering, and shrugs. “You said that your drawing is merely a means to an end. I want to see that end. I’m curious.”

Together, they set up the easel and paints in Napoleon’s room, watching out through the window onto the city streets. Napoleon, still stuck on his words, just shakes his head again, and hopes his expression shows enough, but not too much. Please, don’t let it be too much.

Illya seems satisfied as he walks out of the room, leaving Napoleon to himself.

Napoleon stands there for a moment, staring at the place where Illya had disappeared, and then, god help him, starts to paint.

———

It’s surprisingly not that hard to get back into it, though his leg starts to complain after an hour of standing. Napoleon’s mind is aflame with ideas, as if he’d been saving them somewhere for over two decades, in a pocket of secrets he’d not been able to reach until the opportunity arrived. His mind pushes him to the past, and within a few strokes of his charcoal, a lightly sketched scene starts to make itself known on the snow white canvas. A face familiar, and without name, and then another, and another.

By the time Napoleon realises who he is drawing, it’s already too late to stop. The image comes pouring out of him without hesitation, and when it’s time to start to mix the paints, Napoleon almost feels young and bitter again, a captain taking on a new group— his last group, though he doesn’t know that yet.

The first layer of colour blocks have been applied when a knock on the door shakes Napoleon out of his focus. He stops at once, averts his eyes from the past, and grabs his crutches to hop to the door, his injured leg now firmly asleep.

“Illya told me not to bother you,” Gaby says from behind the door, “But you’ve been in there for a while and lunch is being served. I don’t think you can live on paint fumes, Solo.”

“Fine,” Napoleon says, his throat scratchy from his silence, “I’m coming.”

“We’re going downstairs in five,” Gaby says, her voice already trailing away.

Napoleon takes a deep breath, and looks at his hands, now covered in specks of paint like they used to be. Like he used to be. He turns around and dares to look at the faces, still unfinished and untouched, and wishes he could make it real— to have them still be smiling, instead of dead in the ground.

Napoleon pushes himself out of the door, trying to ignore the tingle in the back of his mind, but it has grasped him thoroughly; that itch to continue, to finish, to make something beautiful with his own hands.

He doesn’t believe it will be. He doesn’t believe in his ability to make beautiful things, after destroying so much in his lifetime. But maybe that’s what makes it easier, his resignation to his failure giving the act of painting an ease it never had before.

In the following days, Napoleon continues tirelessly, eventually acquiescing with Illya’s insistence to put a stool before the easel to rest his leg. He doesn’t sleep much, but he hasn’t done that anyway since his surgery. He finishes the happiness that will never have a name, and starts a new one, and then another, all images and flickers from the past. Where his memory fails him abstraction saves him, and canvasses in angry blue tear out a sadness he never admitted to, and dark slashes of paint visualise the shadows of his nights.

It’s when Illya leaves, one morning, called in by Moss on orders from Waverly, that Napoleon slinks off back to his room and makes his first, true mistake. He grabs the last canvas Illya gave him, the largest of them all, and starts to paint death.

———

Napoleon becomes aware of the heat first, his body feels like it’s glowing from the inside. He unbuttons his shirt as fast as he can manage, the air around him suddenly too thick to breath. But it doesn’t make any difference and the effort only makes him more heated, his breathing quickens and something like a shiver trails over his back when Napoleon realises how hard it is to focus, how impossible it feels to take a deep breath.

His ears start ringing with the absence of sound, a static pitch that frightens him more than it hurts him. Napoleon becomes aware of his heartbeat pulsing underneath his skin, radiating. The beats a wave through his whole body, weighing him down as every failed breath sways him on his feet.

Desperate, Napoleon yanks on the collar of his shirt, but strength has left him along with calm. The room starts to cripple around him as his vision becomes vague and fuzzy, as if he’s being pulled inside of his own mind, leaving the reality of the world untethered. _What if he can’t find his way back? What if he stays lost?_

The frantic questions only worsen his panic and the heaviness becomes too much to bare. Napoleon drops to his knees, sucking in as much air as he can. His eyes catch on the corner of the painting — Ginger’s smile in _red red red_ — and suddenly everything falls away around it.

The heat still consumes him, worse with every second, but a part of Napoleon is convinced that if he keeps looking at the paint forming blood covered lips, he will be okay. If he keeps his eyes stuck to the only piece of reality that still exists, he will stay here. It’s an anchor, a chain to the world.

He can’t let it go. If he keeps looking he won’t get lost.

But he doesn’t want to see Ginger dying again, he doesn’t want to taste the blood on his lips, the iron tang on his tongue a memory haunting him. Napoleon tries to pull himself away — better lost than seeing this death again — but he can’t. He’s frozen, trapped inside the moment while heat pulses on every side of him, touching his ears and tightening the back of his head. Something is consuming him. Napoleon tries to call out but his lips won’t move, no sound comes of his throat. Fear licks hungrily inside his chest, his heart pulsing to keep up, but Napoleon can’t move — he can’t _move_. He can’t—

Footsteps echo behind him, far away to Napoleon’s ears. Ghostly. He doesn’t know if they’re real.

A voice calls out, echoing nothing, and Napoleon can’t catch the words. Understanding has left him, concentrating on the voice scatters his thoughts only further. He clenches his jaw and stares at the painting as hard as he can, trying to keep himself here, so he can listen, so he can hear. He doesn’t know what will happen if he stops fighting and that scares him more than anything.

A hand touches his shoulder and the sensation pounds through his body, almost registering as pain. The warmth of the hand mixes with the heat, and the pressure against his muscle is too much and Napoleon wants to yell at them to let go but he _can’t._

The hand immediately disappears, as if the person heard his screaming inside of his mind.

Relief makes Napoleon take the first deep breath since this started. The heavy heat moves away for a moment and through the fog, Napoleon is able to register Illya’s voice. Understand the words. He grasps at them, a new tether, and closes his eyes to the painting, instead using Illya’s presence to _stay._

“Cowboy, can you hear me?”

Napoleon tries to respond, nod, _anything,_ but he can’t and the powerlessness pulls the heat back with vengeance. For a second, his gaze can move, but then his eyes are stuck on John’s face: his beautiful eyes closed in his final rest, and Napoleon is unable to stop the tears from streaming down.

Humiliation lights another fire, as sharp thoughts pierce through him. He shouldn’t have painted this, should have known that digging into the past would only bring the grief he’s been trying so hard to run from. John’s shoulder looks too real, too much as if he could touch it and feel the life drain out of him. As if it happened only a moment ago—

As if it was only a day after John told him, in between the sheets of their bed, the light of the rising sun warming their last moment of peace. John had spoke, with soft eyes and a small smile, of love and the future, a future for them.

The following day, he took his last breath in Napoleon’s arms.

Napoleon tries to gasp for air, but like John, he lost the ability. He still can’t move his eyes away, as much as he desperately wants to stop seeing the proof, the evidence, that love in all its forms, is not something he gets.

That love, in all its forms, only ends in death.

He should have learned. He should have learned.

A sudden shadow passes over and Illya stands before him, between the painting and Napoleon’s gasping form.

Napoleon stares helplessly at Illya’s face, cut open in concern and something Napoleon doesn’t recognise.

Napoleon sees Illya’s bright eyes and wonders when they’ll glaze over and stare into nothing. When he’ll feel the last breath pass through Illya’s chest. Illya is saying something, louder than before, but Napoleon can’t answer, like his, so far removed from Illya while standing close.

It feels like he’s already gone.

The day will come when Napoleon will feel Illya die in his arms, like everyone he loved has done before. He should have stopped it, and in his failure he signed Illya’s death warrant.

Napoleon wishes he could apologise, but his attempts are lost heaving, and sobs desperately trying to escape his chest.

Illya places a hand there, over Napoleon’s heart, rising and falling with the shocks. He pulls Napoleon’s hand over his and takes a deep breath. Illya snaps something, repeating it until slowly it trickles into Napoleon’s mind.

“Breathe! Breathe, Cowboy, come on, please— Napoleon, breathe with me.”

Napoleon squeezes his hand around Illya’s and tries, he tries because Illya wants him to. He follows Illya’s pace, trying to push everything else away. Nothing matters besides Illya’s breath.

As he comes to, he starts to understand Illya’s comforting murmurs, realising Illya’s slipped into Russian, counting their breaths off. It tugs at Napoleon’s memory of their first months together, Illya stalking off after a fight too close, or a rough time with a mark, huffing numbers under his breath. The visions of normality distract Napoleon momentarily and with it he’s able to push himself into calm breath, following Illya’s numbers diligently, letting the encouragements quiet his heart.

_You’re good, Cowboy. You’re safe. You’re doing good. Another one, I know you can do it. You’re doing great. I’m here. I’m here. I’m here._

After a while, Napoleon collapses against Illya’s shoulder, head pressed into his neck, making his shirt wet with tears. He’s exhausted to the bone, thankful he seems to have found some stability, but painfully aware that he’s pushing into Illya’s space.

But Illya doesn’t pull away, he leans forward, taking Napoleon’s weight with ease. Then he asks softly, “Touch is okay now?” which breaks Napoleon all over again, in another way— a better way.

Napoleon nods to his own humiliation, desperate for it, and two arms wrap around him, holding him to his chest. As if it’s normal. Napoleon lets himself relax in Illya’s body for one moment, unable to refuse what Illya is giving him. He listens to Illya’s steady heartbeat and breathes with him for another long moment, pretending he isn’t crying until he finally is able to stop. He feels safe, here, held up by Illya’s calm presence. He doesn’t feel strong enough to pull back, but he has to, he can’t demand too much.

Napoleon leans away, he shivers in the sudden cold.

Illya watches him carefully, eyes scanning his face. The concern is still there, but relief is a sheen of light on his face, and it almost hurts to look.

Napoleon suddenly notices how close they’re sitting. Their knees touch as they’re kneeling on the floor across from each other. Napoleon lowers his eyes, a strange sense of embarrassment forcing his gaze down and making his hands into fists. He rubs his arm across his face in order to wipe the tears away, but his skin doesn’t do much good.

Illya immediately grabs Napoleon’s shirt from beside them and gives it to Napoleon. Napoleon takes it wordlessly and dries his face. Then, when he feels as dignified as he can in this situation, he sighs deeply and looks up from the ground.

“I—“ he starts, his voice cracking immediately. Napoleon swallows and tries again. “I’m sorry for whatever that was, Peril. Thank you— for your assistance, in the matter.” Napoleon grimances and his eyes fall into a corner of the room, before catching himself and moving his gaze a bit. He doesn’t want to get stuck again.

“A panic attack,” Illya says, a low rumble in the room. “You had a panic attack.”

Napoleon blinks, surprised. “That was a panic attack?” He turns to see Illya nod. “Ah, well. I thought I was going insane, dying possibly.” The joke falls flat because Napoleon can’t find it in himself to force it to be one.

Illya doesn’t reply for a long while, long enough to make tendrils of heat start to form again. Napoleon quietly tries to take a deep breath, clenching his fists.

“You need water and sugar,” Illya says, breaking the silence and Napoleon’s growing fear.”Come, I’m not leaving you alone.”

Napoleon huffs but allows Illya to drag him up. “You’ve done enough, Peril. I don’t need a babysitter.”

Illya ignores him and instead starts to ask questions on how long Napoleon had been painting, how long it was since he last ate, and how much sleep he’s been getting the last week. The answer on all of is a variation of “I have no idea,” or “It wasn’t dark when I started, so it might have been a while.” Illya throws him a disapproving frown.

Napoleon eats two pieces of toast and a vanilla pudding under the glaring eyes of Illya, and for the rest of the night he doesn’t leave his side. If Napoleon wanted to, he could reach out and touch him at all times. And he does want to, more than anything, drawn in by the memory of calm comfort wrapped around him, and the soft murmurs in his ear. Napoleon blames his episode for his weakness, because for once he slips out of his control, steals fleeting touches and leans against Illya for as long as he is allowed. Illya lets him, doesn’t step away or make any complaint. Napoleon feels selfish, for using Illya’s generosity for his own means, but he can’t help himself, for just one evening. He just wants one moment before it all crumbles in his hands.

Napoleon sleeps in short bursts, anxiety and fear still running through him. But every time he wakes, he sees Illya on the ground beside him— he’d refused to let Napoleon sleep alone, just in case, and had dragged a mattress beside Napoleon’s bed.

Felled by exhaustion, when consciousness takes him whole it last until hours past dawn.

Napoleon rises from his sleep, feeling a strange mixture of refreshed and drained, as if the previous evening had dislodged a piece of rubble out of an open wound. The skin still raw and open, but now finally there is a chance to close. Napoleon feels fragile and in the back of his mind there is a fear— a fear of this happening again, a fear of his nightmares coming true.

Since John, being scared of losing someone is no news to him. None of his thoughts were out of his normal reach, but being overwhelmed by them like that… Napoleon doesn’t know how to prevent that from happening again. Maybe he’s not strong enough to carry it anymore.

Illya had helped. Illya knew how to help him, seemed experienced in a way Napoleon was not. Napoleon doesn’t want to burden him with this, but maybe he can learn from him, so he can do it by himself.

But it isn’t how his life goes. Napoleon has no right to ask for help, even when it’s to carry himself. Any idea to ask Illya for help leaves his mind when he finds Illya in the shared living room, packing a bag.

“Wait,” Napoleon says, stumbling into the living room with only one crutch and collapsing on the sofa. “Peril? You’re leaving?”

Illya turns to him with an apologetic expression and says, “Waverly is sending me on a mission. I came to you to tell you but—“

 _You were collapsed on a heap on the floor so I was worried you couldn’t handle it_ , Napoleon fills. He gets it, he even gets the pity in Illya’s eyes, but that doesn’t mean he wants to hear it. He cuts Illya off. “No, I understand. Great. That’s great. Well, success. I hope you have a better experience without deadweight like us.”

Napoleon spits it without thinking, remembering the Ghost’s words with painful accuracy, and sees the moment when they land.

Illya flinces, his fists clenched tight around a shirt in his hands. “Cowboy—”

“Fuck,” Napoleon says, looking away from Illya’s pale face. “I’m sorry. Don’t listen to me, Peril, never do, it only breeds trouble.”

“It’s okay.” He hears Illya say. He doesn’t look.

Napoleon smiles bitterly. “You know it isn’t.”

“It won’t take long, Napoleon,” Illya says after a moment, too gently. It tightens Napoleon’s chest. “Next mission I’ll have to deal with you again, but that’s my speciality. My greatest talent is not listening to what you are saying.”

Napoleon sighs, a small chuckle under his breath. ‘It won’t take long.’ He appreciates the lightness in Illya’s tone, but if he cuts right to the heart of it, Napoleon will too. “Since when are so good at seeing though my…” Napoleon trails of, making a vague hand movement to encapsulate his general meaning.

“Your bullshit?” Illya offers promptly.

“I suppose.” Napoleon narrows his eyes but there is no true venom in it. “It’s quite rude, it hurts my pride.”

“What if I always have been?” Illya says, a hit of smugness to his tone, playful maybe.

“I think that’s overestimating your abilities a bit, Peril.” Napoleon says and pulls a disbelieving expression, shaking his head. “I think it’s a learned skill.”

“I’ve been learning,” Illya says, and smiles in a way that makes Napoleon almost forget the bags at Illya’s feet, the reason why they’re having this conversation. And then he remembers, and realises he won’t see that smile again for at least two weeks. Napoleon swallows a self-deprecating chuckle, wondering how the hell he’s going to get through life if he’s so dependant on Illya’s fucking smile. He’s not exactly known to do it much.

“I have a favour to ask,” Illya says finally, taking something out of his pocket.

Napoleon nods, tilting his head in question and bites his tongue to prevent himself from saying _anything you need_.

“Gaby gave me one of her new inventions,” Illya says, and it’s only then that Napoleon realises the watch on Illya’s wrist is not his father’s. “No one wears two watches,” Illya continues, “so I want to keep this safe.”

Illya steps towards Napoleon and shows his father’s watch in his hand. Napoleon swallows and nods again. “Of course, I’ll keep it in a safe only I can crack just in case I lose the key.”

Illya ignores him, humming nonconcomitantly, and takes Napoleon’s wrist. Without a word, he clicks the watch into place before stepping back again, his fingers lingering for a moment until he lets go. He steps back, seems to inspect Napoleon from afar, and then nods to himself, seemingly satisfied. “Keep it safe,” Illya repeats.

Napoleon stares at the precious watch now around his own wrist, the weight of it heavy but comforting. The sight is strange and familiar at the same time, he knows the shape and feel of it better than anything he owns himself, etched into his memory as he waited for Illya all the way back in Berlin. But he isn’t the one supposed to be wearing it. He never thought Illya would entrust it to anyone, but apparently he does, he trusts Napoleon that much. Napoleon clears his throat and hopes his face isn’t betraying him as he says, swears, “I will.”

Illya’s expression is calm and light, it warms Napoleon to his core. He pushes the hunger away, the sudden need to move into his space and take a kiss before he leaves. Because _this_ is what he would lose if he were to do so. Illya’s trust and their partnership broken by demanding more. It should be enough. It must be enough.

Napoleon clears his throat and doesn’t say, “Come home safe— please, ” because that isn’t what they are. Instead he grins slow, leans back into the couch in a casual slouch and says, “I want a full report of what that watch does. Make sure to use the 12 o’clock option if you can. I would’ve loved to see that.”

Illya watches him, his eyes raking over him, and something in his posture breaks, the quiet calm already broken. Even when he tries, Napoleon can’t help but ruin what they have, even when he’s careful. Napoleon doesn’t know what he did wrong, but Illya stops smiling. He doesn’t seem angry, just not light in the way he was before Napoleon opened his goddamn mouth.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Illya says, and moves away to the door. “Goodbye, Cowboy.”

He doesn’t slam the door behind him. Napoleon wishes he had.

———

A few days later finds him before another painting heaving for breath, but this time there is no Illya to help him. This time there are only memories. Napoleon manages, after a while. It helps to know that it isn’t the coming of death, but despite repeating this information over and over, it still takes a hellish eternity for his body to believe it.

Gaby’s been working furiously on something in the workshop, hoping to send the gadget by post for Illya and his team, and Napoleon has been expertly avoiding her and everyone else in the building. He has the whole building memorized by now and knows the exact ways to disappear without anyone noticing even with his leg forming an obstacle to true stealth.

When he feels strong enough to stand, he hobbles to a smaller kitchen next to the entertainment rooms and takes a cheap bottle of whiskey out of the hidden stash, hesitates, and takes another. He sits on the edge of his bed, looks at the painting with his liquid courage, and thinks about the war, about loss, and about death.

Time flows in and out like the alcohol in his glass and his memory becomes woozy. He throws up once, someone gives him a glass of water, and when he wakes up for a few minutes in the middle of the night, there is a blanket tugged over him and his shoes are off.

The sun greets him later with a killer headache, and Napoleon doesn’t remember his dreams. He stretches out, grabs the aspirin on the bedside table, and freezes when he realises the easel has been turned around, the painting now facing the blank wall. All other paintings are turned aswell, or have sheets over them.

Napoleon takes the painkillers and doesn’t know how to feel about any of this.

Gaby approaches him hours later, her hands still dusted with sut from a workday. “I think I’ve waited long enough for you to come to me, and that doesn’t seem to be happening, so now I’m coming to you.”

Napoleon doesn’t respond. They’re standing on the balcony adjacent to their living room, overlooking the city and it’s canal. Napoleon keeps his back towards Gaby, who’s stepped through the glass door joins him at the railing, mimicking his position with her arms hanging over it and her gaze towards the city.

Napoleon keeps quiet.

It takes two minutes for Gaby to break. She crosses her arms and says. “Solo, talk to me.”

Napoleon pastes a smile on his face. “What do you want Gaby? I’m trying to enjoy this view in peace and _quiet_.” He stresses the last word in such a way that it can’t be interpreted as anything other than passive aggressive annoyance underneath the forced polite veneer.

But Gaby doesn’t get angry, she just shakes her head and says,”Stop it. Not this Solo, _our_ Solo.”

Napoleon sighs and suddenly feels so tired. His shoulders sag despite himself and he wrings his hands. “What do you want, Gabs.”

Gaby smiles softly from the corner of his eye. “There you are. Now, what’s going on.”

“Nothing to worry about,” Napoleon says.

Gaby huffs and passes him a cigarette, and shrugs when Napoleon raises an eyebrow at her. “Illya is not here to glare at us for it, and it’s the only discretion I’ll allow you, you’ve had enough to drink for a long while.”

Napoleon avoids her gaze at that, but takes the lit cigarette and takes a drag. He senses her impatience at his side, but she lets him for a moment, trying to calm himself with the familiar feel of smoke in his lungs. It’s been a while, but it’s become a bit of a tradition, a smoke after a heavy mission, trying to breathe away the events before in a few minutes of silence. Only this time, the silence won’t last. Napoleon supposes that finding him passed out drunk must have been the last straw for Gaby. She doesn’t share much, but Napoleon knows her mother had been a close friend with the bottom of a bottle as well. Napoleon doesn’t know how to apologize for forcing her to deal with that without opening up that wound even more, so he doesn’t say anything.

Instead he tries to find the words for what he’s feeling, the core of what makes his head explode, but he can’t find them. He doesn’t know how to explain it if he himself has no way to understand. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I don’t know either,” Gaby replies. “I just know you, and you’ve been acting…” Gaby trails off and then sighs. “I’m worried about you.”

Napoleon shivers, and pushes Gaby’s concern away. He responds to the only thing he knows for sure. “You don’t know me,” Napoleon says, softly but with a tone that invites no argument. Because how can they know him if he doesn’t even know himself? If he doesn’t know what part of him is left, what part of him is a mask, and who he has been for the last 15 years? They can’t know him. Nobody can.

There is a pause, and then a short chuckle. “Do you really think that? If so, you’re lying to yourself.” Gaby lets out a short laugh again and says, “I know you, I know you better than I know anyone else.”

Napoleon frowns and opens his mouth to protest, turning to look at Gaby despite himself, but she cuts him off.

“Better than Illya too,” she says, guessing what Napoleon wanted to say perfectly. “Illya is closed off but doesn’t try to hide it, doesn’t try so hard. You do.”

“You’re disproving it yourself,” Napoleon argues. “If I’m hiding then—”

“— then how are you more revealing than Illya? Good question, now shush and listen.” Gaby pats him on the arm and continues without pause. “It’s because you try so hard to hide yourself, it comes spilling out of the cracks when you’ve exhausted yourself. You crack and show, without knowing— which is a good thing, because constantly pretending isn’t sustainable. Illya, on the other hand, doesn’t share much of himself but he isn’t fighting anything either. There isn’t anything to crack. He seems to have let go of his past as much as he can to be able to enjoy what we now have. You know about his time in the KGB, it wasn’t pretty, but he took this team and lives in it. You could learn from that, but that’s easier said than done.”

Napoleon tries to listen to the words, and he understands what she’s saying but the moment he starts to comprehend it shivers trail over his spine and he tries to push the idea away. The idea that his desperation keep himself protected might be what has been betraying himself all along. “Prove it, then.” Napoleon says. “What do you know about me.”

“Is this a test or a challenge?” Gaby asks, it seems to be a genuine question.

Napoleon doesn’t know. “Whatever you want it to be.”

“Okay,” Gaby says, and leans further over the balcony railing, her hair flowing in the evening summer breeze. She takes a moment to think, and then the words rattle out at a pace Napoleon almost can’t keep up with, a low buzz of anxiety slowing him down.

“Let’s start with the superficial first,” Gaby begins, and she lists small things from the favorite way Napoleon takes his coffee, to the best meal he’s ever eaten. She talks about the songs he listens to before a mission, what strategies he favors during missions, and what missions interest him most. She even notes how Napoleon ends up having a favorite tie for three weeks exactly, before getting bored with it and moving on to another one, buying new ones if he finds one his style, or rotating back to an older one who’d lost it’s status of boringness.

“But that doesn’t really count,” Gaby says after she’s taken a breath. “Those are just things you learn about someone you spend time with, it’s been more than two years by now. You catch things. I could list that for Illya, Waverly and Lavender, even a few for Moss.”

Gaby thinks for a moment and then nods to herself. “Here is something, and I’m only telling you this because your ego at the moment is as fake as the smile you tried a moment ago, so just… take it and don’t argue it.”

Napoleon nods, at a loss for what else to do.

“You’re insanely loyal. I thought Illya took that title but after the Ghost,” Gaby shakes her head. “You don’t even notice how much you sacrifice for us— not to mention your life and safety as well. You’re the only one of us that isn’t in this business out of free will. This is our job, but it’s your punishment. Delilah gave you an out and you didn’t take it.”

“Of course I wouldn’t—” Napoleon says out of reflex, but Gaby whips around with an intense gaze Napoleon has never seen on her before.

“No, Napoleon, listen,” she says, a hand on his arm. “Think about it. You’ve been in forced labour for what, 10 years before you met us? You had to put yourself in danger for an agency that threatened you with jail time, and I know enough about that trick to know it wasn’t a real choice. The CIA has a reputation with liaisons, and certainly with criminal consultancy, so I can’t imagine it was all fun and games. Delilah gave you a way back to the life you must have wanted for all that time, finally rid your shackles and walk the world as a free man again. Yes, your circumstances have bettered and you seem to be content at UNCLE, but the CIA still owns you for a few years and there is no certainty on when they’ll call you back, or if they will find a way to keep you after that time. So the best choice for you, in the long term, would have been taking her up on it.”

Napoleon closes his eyes for a moment, having a dormant fear be laid before him in so few words. It seems almost simple, in this light. Gaby squeezes his arm, gently, and then lets go to light another cigarette.

“Solo would have done it,” Gaby says after a drag. “The Solo you pretended to be, and the one you’re pretending to be again. He would have done it. But you didn’t, you didn’t even think of it. Because somehow 2 years of knowing and working with us was enough to wash away a whole decade without agency and safety, and if you can’t see why that isn’t a mark of goodness and an immeasurable sense of loyalty, then I don’t know what is Solo.”

A silence falls, as Gaby seems to have reached the end of her speech. Napoleon takes a long and deep breath, and tries to take in everything Gaby said. His first instinct is to fight it, say something so cruel that even Gaby with all her surety in the goodness of his heart, would have her trust broken. He knows he could do it, he knows what to say to make her hate him. But it would be the last thing he could pretend to be, and he doesn’t want to be that. He wants to be what Gaby thinks he is.

“You made me that way,” Napoleon eventually scrapes together. “You and Illya, you made me in a better person. I’m not— I’m not.”

“You’ve grown with us, yes, we all have, but don’t give us credit for it,” Gaby replies. “I think you’ve always been that way, but this team is the first circumstance in a long time where in you feel safe enough to stop pretending to be something you’re not. You stopped hiding without meaning to and now you’re trying to put up a mask for us again and it won’t work because we know you, Napoleon. We know who you are and that is the person we want to work with, talk with, be a team with. You don’t need to be anything else.”

Napoleon swallows. He looks down at the ground, the height suddenly dizzying. His head heavy with the weight of disappointing the people who seem to care about him. “ I’m sorry,” he says, hoarse. “I don’t know how to be that. I just don’t know anymore.”

“That’s okay,” Gaby says. “You’re allowed to be lost for a while. Just don’t pretend you’re not, it only makes it worse. Things happen to us that break the fundations we build for ourselves, and it hurts and it sucks, and it takes a long time to get back to something we recognize, but keep in mind that some fundations might be better off broken. Some structures we build for ourselves, the ones that used to protect us, aren’t necessary anymore, and instead they keep us captive in our own mind.”

Napoleon gives her a sidelong glance, her words giving understanding to something he’d never knew he needed to hear. “How do you know about all this?”

“I went through my own dark journey after my father died,” Gaby says. “It wasn’t fun.”

Napoleon flinches, remembers seeing Gaby’s grief in the helicopter, just after her father got shot, and selfishly choosing not to do anything. By the time he regretted it, Gaby seemed… She’d seemed fine. “I’m sorry that—”

Gaby holds up a hand and shakes her head. “You already needlessly apologized doped up on drugs after the surgery, and it remains equally unnecessary. It was my choice to keep quiet about it.” She sighs and tugs a strand of hair back behind her ear. “I’ve had more than enough experience with loss and I dealt with it on my own every time. I kept to that pattern, which was a mistake.”

“I should have seen,” Napoleon says.

“You’re not the only one good at hiding, Solo, it’s why I figured you out in the end. Illya was always better at it, but he’s been blinded by his own issues lately, so I’ve declared myself the most reliable source for now.” Gaby smiles, the first hint of lightness since they started this, and then it’s gone again, lost in an expression she wears often while they’re planning a mission. “But we’re away from the point.”

“And what is the point?” Napoleon tries to sound mock-impatient, wanting to get that lightness back. It falls a bit flat but Gaby smiles nonetheless.

“The point is that you helped,” Gaby says, “even with my stubborness getting in the way, just being in this team and you specifically made it much easier than if I’d been truly alone. You bring lightness to situations when Illya and I can’t, but need it more than anything. I’d still be in that some dark pit if it wasn’t for you, so stop feeling guilty about it, you idiot.”

A sudden burst of warmth fills Napoleon’s chest. “Okay?”

“Glad we sorted that out,” Gaby says briskly, but the smile stays in her voice. “The reason why I’m bugging you about is is because I don’t want you to make the mistake I made. Trying to hide, pretend and deal with my father’s loss without talking to the people I trusted most made my recovery much more painful and longer than it needed to be, and you’re throwing yourself headfirst in that same lonely place and I can’t let that happen.”

Napoleon shakes his head as she talks but waits until she’s finished to reply. “You have enough on your shoulders Gaby. Two years isn’t a long time to still be recovering from the loss of a loved one, and not the mention that Illya flinches every time someone references the last mission. I can’t— I can’t be a burden, okay? You don’t deserve that.”

“I’ll give to you that Illya has been hit pretty hard with all this but give him a little time. I think the mission Waverly sent him on will give him the closure he needs. But speaking for myself, Solo, helping you with something like this is not a burden. It’s something I want to do because you are my friend, and because I miss you. You’re here but you’re not, and in no universe I’d prefer being spared of what you call a burden, to seeing you destroy yourself.”

Something feels tight in Napoleon’s throat, he tries to swallow it away but it doesn’t work. Gaby leans against him, rubbing his arm in the chilling breeze.

“I’m not gonna be your therapist or your caretaker,” Gaby says, “but I am your friend and your partner, so talk. You only have to talk, and stop forcing yourself to be alone with all this. You don’t need to be.”

Napoleon bites his lip and uses one hand to rub his face. Once the thing stuck in his throat slowly falls away and a few breaths come and go easily, he leans back against Gaby and says, “Okay. I’ll talk.”

Gaby lets out a sigh of what Napoleon assumes to be relief. “I’m glad,” she says, “I’m really glad about that, Napoleon.”

“I don’t know how I got to meet people like you,” Napoleon says, “Good people. Illya too. I don’t— I never thought I would again. I’m lucky. Thank you.”

“Always happy to bug you into a good mood, Solo,” Gaby says with a small grin. “Or at least as much as we can be while we’re kicking evil guys back into the pits of hell. And we’re definitely going to sit down and talk, but not tonight because you need to eat and sleep first, and I need some time in the workshop.”

Napoleon nods, and then yawns, drawing a laugh from Gaby. “Good idea. Goodnight, Gaby.”

“Goodnight, Solo.”

\----

The following day is calm in a way Napoleon isn’t used to anymore. He wakes before Gaby, makes enough coffee to last them both a lifetime, and after breakfast they end up wandering in the direction of the workshop without having to say anything. There, one of the workers had started making tea, so they switch drinks after a while, when Napoleon feels the caffeine jittering through his body.

Yesterday evening, after Gaby had gone to bed, Napoleon had stayed up thinking for a while, going through the conversation like a detective trying to figure out what exactly happened on a scene, or maybe like a fortune teller, knowing nothing more than guesswork about the future. But his uncertainty doesn’t flow into anxiety, to Napoleon’s great surprise, and without much prompting he starts to talk when Gaby motions him to, beginning at childhood and meandering through his memories until he finally reaches the war.

“He was my first,” Napoleon says, his throat tight and hands shaking around the teamug. “My first everything— not in a physical way, not that, but it was the first time it truly meant something.”

Gaby nods, her finger tracing the rim of her glass. “You loved him.”

“I did,” Napoleon says. He swallows and blinks hard to keep tears from flowing. “I did and I lost him.”

Gaby reaches over with a napkin in the one hand and a cookie in the other. Napoleon takes both and tries to smile. Gaby smiles back, but doesn’t say anything as she folds up her legs in her chair and waits for Napoleon to continue. Napoleon appreciated that, nothing she could have said about it would have helped.

“After John there was one other. I called him Ginger, because he was, and I didn’t want to know their names. I must have known his though, at some point. I don’t remember anymore, I forced myself to forget. I used to be thankful for that, I thought it would hurt less because I didn’t remember his name. I thought it meant I didn’t really know him, so I didn’t truly care. But I did. I did care. And I believed that was the greatest mistake of all.”

“The caring?” Gaby asks.

“Yeah,” Napoleon says, “I thought that I failed to protect myself, because I cared.”

Gaby nods, understanding. “And now?’

“Now I’m ashamed for not knowing the name of a man that died under my command, someone who trusted me, who sacrificed themselves to save me. He deserved better than that. My fear of loosing someone else just—“ Napoleon cuts himself off and starts over. “He deserved better. All of them did. I was a coward for not owning up to the pain, living it. Instead I pretended he never existed, that there had been never the possibility of—”

Napoleon clenches his jaw, the same old shame and anger at himself coursing through his body. Gaby watches him with a calm face, not meeting his anger, not giving any sign of blame. Napoleon breathes deep, and tries to match her demeanor. It isn’t pretending if he wants to feel it, if he wants to be calm instead of lost to anger.

So Napoleon clears his throat, and adds as compassionately as he can, “But after John, all I felt when someone looked at me that… that way, was fear, and maybe resignation, preparing myself to lose them too.”

“Is that what you’re still afraid of? Losing us?”

“Of course I am,” Napoleon breathes. He looks away from Gaby, to the workshop around them, the courtyard behind the windows, and he knows that without the two of them, this wouldn’t mean anything, not really, not anymore.

“We’re all capable people,” Gaby begins after a moment. “But sadly our line of work is full of risks, as you know, so I can’t promise you you won’t lose us, just like I can’t promise myself I won’t lose you someday. Illya is the same way. We’re all terrified, Solo, it’s human to be, but we work through it and make sure to push the day as far away as we can. We did almost lose you a few weeks ago, but we didn’t because you are strong, even with a stab wound, a bullet, and a world of drugs in your system. We all are.”

Napoleon shakes his head, not at Gaby’s statement but at himself. How can they feel exactly the same, but he’s the only one losing control over himself? “If that’s true,” Napoleon says, “I should be capable— I should be strong enough to not let this compromise me.”

Gaby tsks and then sighs. “One, you’ve already been through this once. You lost the love of your life in combat and then proceeded to bury it for years. It’s about time it all comes out. And two it isn’t a competition, everyone's responses range and not one is stronger or weaker than the other. Illya punches walls, I’m a workaholic in our free time, and you paint and then collapse in front of them. There is no system of worth that makes one reaction better than the other, the only thing is that you need to slowly build some control around that. Make sure you’re not pushing yourself into the deep end. I take breaks now, every 3 hours. I didn’t do that when I started working here. I’d like to see you find something that helps you get through it without feeling the need for alcohol by your side.”

It’s as if Gaby can cut through the substance of his mind and twist it all in a different perspective. Memories of either Gaby or Illya’s responses now fit themself neatly in the context of close calls and loses, instead of personality quirks. Napoleon thinks for a moment on her suggestion, but nothing besides painting interests him at the moment.

Gaby stands up to give them another round of tea, giving Napoleon the time to formulate his argument.

“I think painting helps,” Napoleon says eventually, and holds a hand up to Gaby’s look of doubt. “It hurts, yes, but I think I need that. It’s breaking through the denial I’ve held onto for so long. I might not remember their names, but I do remember _them_. I’m glad I do. I’m glad it hurts. It means it was real once, for all that I tried to forget it. I deserve to feel that pain, and maybe one day I will heal, a little.”

“I don’t think you deserve it,” Gaby replies, and taps her finger to her chin in thought, “but if it helps you I’m not going to judge. Just, take care of yourself, take breaks put them away for a moment. And also make sure it’s not only that. Paint for yourself every once in a while, paint for fun, paint to become better— if you want. Don’t make this into a burden, use it as a crutch.”

Napoleon contemplates that for a moment and then finally nods, slowly, matching the light smile on Gaby’s face. “I think I can do that.”

Gaby’s smile widens and then turns mischievous. “Paint me, at least once, one of those dramatic greek paintings, with the hunched poses— or no, no, one where I lay on a couch and beautiful men and women are giving me fruits and other luxuries. I want to be a greek goddess.”

Napoleon sees the painting before him at her words, Gaby laying royalty in a gold laced silk dress, surrounded by beauty in all forms, looking straight at the viewer walking past as though to demand something with her eyes from within the paint. Regal and luxurious, but worthy of respect and worship. The imagined vision disperses as Napoleon looks at Gaby with new eyes, taking in the sparkle in her eyes and the smug smile, like Napoleon already agreed to her proposal— as if she knows he won’t refuse her. Napoleon laughs at the thought; she would do well as a goddess, that’s for sure.

“Great,” Gaby says, not waiting until Napoleon says the words to grow in excitement. “When do we begin?”

Napoleon chuckles again and checks Illya’s watch — ignores the stab of something in his chest as he looks upon it. “We have a few hours till the shops close, so we can go to the centre to search for a canvas … worthy of your image, after lunch.”

Gaby plays along at once, drawing her expression into subtle agreement, raising her chin up in the air before she nods. “Yes, that would be acceptable, Master Solo. I assume there will be refreshments provided while I pose before you?”

“The finest of wines befitting the finest of ladies,” Napoleon says though a nasally voice, barely suppressing a less than fitting smile, until he finally breaks and adds, “I’m sure we can steal one from the kitchens.”

Gaby drops the act too and laughs fully, wiping a tear from her eye. “I’m sure. Who’s going to be the honey pot this time?”

Napoleon hums, looking out to the courtyard, sunlight shimmering through the window. “The new chef has been keeping an eye on you, I caught her checking you out twice last night.”

“Well, that’s that decided then,” Gaby says, following Napoleons gaze. Without needing to communicate they both stand, opening the door to enjoy the nice weather before it’s time to go to the dinner hall. Gaby lights up a cigarette, but Napoleon shakes his head. He doesn’t need one.

“What about Illya?” Gaby asks, after a moment, sneaky in the way she is.

Napoleon takes a deep breath and sighs, but none of the panic he expected flows with his air. Not a day ago, the question would have sent him running, hiding and waiting for the heat to consume him again. But somehow, with Gaby next to him quietly waiting, it’s easy to be honest. He knows she will listen, he knows she will understand, in her way. No fear restricts his throat as Napoleon finally speaks, and says, “Illya is an impossible possibility. A possibility that terrifies me to no end.” Napoleon takes a breath and continues, “You might deduce why from the conversation we had just now, and my experiences with loss and— Nevermind the very real possibility Illya will break my jaw if I ever tell him.“

Gaby says nothing, just watching, just waiting. Napoleon closes his eyes and lets out a fond chuckle. “You’re a devil, Gaby Teller. You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you.”

Gaby smiles and nods, but doesn’t push. Her expression is open and honest, and her calm is infectious.

Napoleon steals her cigarette and stamps it out on the ground. Gaby flicks his head but there is a smile on her face.

“I love him,” Napoleon says, and it’s suddenly so easy to tell her. Something loossens in his mind and the wave of freedom almost overwhelms him, as if he’d always wanted to share this with someone, but never knew he did. “I’ve been in love with him for quite some time. The fact that I’m saying this and don’t feel the urge to throw myself over the railing is saying something about progress, I think.”

He feels a hand on his arm and Napoleon looks to the side to when Gaby squeezes. There is something proud in her smile, as if she thinks he did something good. As if his confession isn’t a disaster waiting to happen.

Gaby leans against him, her head against his shoulder, and says, “I think you two should talk.”

There is nothing about her that reads surprise, and Napoleon takes a shuddering breath.

“After he gets back from killing for you, of course,” Gaby adds lightly, and that, more than anything, is the thing that sparks some hope into Napoleon. He hurries to tamp it down, but within seconds he is lost to it, as he usually is with Illya.

“I’ll think about it,” Napoleon says eventually.

Gaby smiles. “See that you do.” She squeezes his arm again. “I’m going to work for a bit before lunch starts, and after that you promised me a painting.

“Don’t expect it to be done within a day,” Napoleon says after her, and then adds, “Thank you, Gaby. For everything.”

Gaby nods and then closes the door behind her, leaving Napoleon alone to his thoughts.

Napoleon lets them flow, filters through fears and possibilities, futures and risks. He doesn’t know how long he stands there, but Gaby rouses him out of his wandering mind with a quick series of knocks on the glass door. There is a maybe, following him with every step. His impossible possibility a potentiality away. He joins the table with Gaby’s friends, laughs his lungs up in the art store with Gaby spreading mischief left and right. By the time the sun starts to set, the stolen bottle of champagne is well and truly finished, and the first lines of sketches are on the canvas.

In all the joy of the day, Napoleon had been thinking about the possibilities, the options he has when Illya comes back. He doesn’t arrive to a decision before exhaustion takes him, but the ruins in his mind feel lighter somehow, as if he can handle them someday— maybe.

Underneath the soft moonlight, Napoleon waits without knowing he’s waiting for dawn to come.

Miles away, Illya prepares his bags, ready, so ready to go home.

Napoleon dreams his masterpiece.

Napoleon sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that was that. Napoleon almost implodes but luckily he has his friends to back him up. Personally the interaction between Gaby and Napoleon here is probably my fave I've written for them. I really like their dynamic here, they're not only good friends but similar people on a few key fronts that make their understanding of each other very easy to write. 
> 
> I really hope this was worth the long ass wait. I'm still waayy to busy in RL because I somehow promised to do everything after my exams. (For example I'm being the DM for Two Fucking Parties next weekend, I will die) 
> 
> So my best estimate is that the last chapter will be done two weeks from now, and as you all know comments fuel my ass so any sort of yelling/keysmashing you could donate to this cause would be appreciated. 
> 
> I literally was planing to split this chapter in half until yesterday night two people commented on this thing and suddenly the whole damn thing was done. It's like a cheatcode, it's insane. 
> 
> Love y'all, hope you survived this one, and we're almost at the finish-line!!!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi y'all! I've been very busy and sadly got blocked as heck aswell, so that's why this chapter took longer than I anticipated. Some good news depending on your perspective: this is not the last chapter. It turned out the solution to my block was more writing, so after this will be (I hope I don't jinx it) the last chapter of this story, but there might be a small lil epilogue to close it all off. 
> 
> Just for full disclosure, my busyness status isn't really changing anytime soon, so I hope it won't take as long this time but I won't promise anything. I'm at least keeping to the Sunday posting thing, so that would minimise the days you check and be disappointed. Though maybe we get lucky and the last chapter takes only a week! I sure hope so. I also hope that y'all enjoy this one <3

It takes seven days to find the compound.

Waverly had sent them with enough intel to zero in on a mountainous area in Austria, but the exact location had been unbeknownst to them until Illya had found the right person to ask— not necessarily nicely.

“Virgen,” the man chokes out, blood trails down his chin. “He’s in Virgen. In a safe-house, built into the mountain side.”

Illya stretches his fingers, his knuckles ache. The man’s nose is crooked. “Do you know that place?” he asks Lavender, who’s sitting to the side with her arms crossed, watching.

Lavender hums, grabs a file from the desk beside her, and flicks through it. Her thoughtful expression reminds Illya of Gaby. He looks away. “There is word of a compound in a snowy area. It goes by a few names, Virgen is not one of them. Iron Palace, the Ice fortress, the Cold?”

She lists off the names to the man, who has slumped over himself, his arms tied together in an awkward angle behind his back. He doesn’t respond. Illya gives him a flick to his head.

“You said you’d cooperate,” Illya says with a low voice. “Don’t make me regret trusting you.”

The man snaps up and immediately flinches at the pain the movement causes. Broken ribs, at least three. “Virgen is the town, Fortress is what they call the safe house,” he gasps out. “I’ve only been there once. Like she said, it has many names. I’ll tell you everything I know— just please, let me go, and don’t let them find me.”

“We’ll be sending you somewhere they can’t get to you,” Lavender responds. She rises from her seat and walks towards the shaking mess of a man. “Now,” she says as she grasps the man by his naked shoulders, her nails dig in. A small smile forms on her face and she continues, “The floor is yours. Tell us.”

Illya takes a few paces back. His job is done. Adrenaline runs high through his body and this is a familiar dance, the slow rhythm of an interrogation turning fuzzy in the background as he comes down from being a threat, a weapon, a reason to speak or fear for your limbs. He hadn’t needed to do much this time, the man weak in his resolve. Waverly had been right in the end: in these circles survival goes above loyalty. Illya hadn’t held the intention to kill this man — his is not a necessary death — but that doesn’t mean he has to know that.

That doesn’t mean Illya can’t use fear to get what he needs.

Usually, in situations like these, he has Napoleon by his side: needling information out of people in more insidious ways; charms, jokes and smiles, making them trust him and talk before they realise they’ve been lead into a trap. It’s a rare moment that Illya needs to use his fists, his looming shadow in the corner of the room is often threat enough, and even then—

Napoleon draws his gun before he lets Illya do anything. Illya has yet to figure out if he does it out of mercy for him, or the target. It could be both.

But as it has been the last two years, Illya feels no tendrils of guilt pulsing through his body now. He’s done what he needed to do, what he decided he had to do. No orders, no chains. He has control over how far he should take it, and for this he’s willing to go far. The man they found had been at the warehouse, had been one of the men who had kidnapped Napoleon and Gaby and whisked them out of his sight. This man is more than a killer, a thief, a fixer of evil. He’s a piece of filth that put Napoleon on the doorstep of the end.

The man curses in the background, Lavender grinds her boot on his feet. “Don’t lie to me,” she says, “you promised.”

Illya smiles to himself, small. He misses them, Napoleon and Gaby, their partnership. He misses Gaby on the side taking notes and Napoleon by the door, taking watch while cracking jokes. He misses them more than he ever thought possible, the absence of them rattles him despite having worked with others for most of his life. It had been so easy to fall into them, the push and pull of three people with strengths on different sides. A dynamic, a team.

But a part of him is glad that they don’t have to see this. This hungry side of him, the one prowling for revenge. They know him well, they know his anger, and they’ve seen him grow over the years. The beast in his chest more controlled, almost tamed, by the absence of chains and the healing of trust. But now Illya feels it again, that killer instinct, anger pushing him through the blood. He is furious, every second of the day, has been every moment since Napoleon went down, and this fury demands him to be better, to work harder, to become the perfect hunter.

Illya knows he’s good, he knows he is one of the best. This fact used to scare him. But now he’s accepted the beast as his ally, as what he needs to be— _wants_ to be, to rectify his failure of protection, to see this revenge to its bitter end. Napoleon was never supposed to come so close to death. Illya knows what he needs to become to never let that happen again.

Lavender stands, her moleskine notebook tucked back into her suit pocket. “I think we’re done here,” she says. “I’ll call it in, they’ll pick him up in a few hours. You’ve got everything.”

Illya looks around the room. It’s shabby, but it served them well as a hide-out for the past week. It’s a pity about the carpet, they’ll have to have it cleaned before anyone can use it again. Illya grabs the bags, already packed, and puts them by the front door. He straps the gun lying on an iron table back to his hip and throws the bloodied rags in the trashcan— the clean-up team will get rid of all evidence later.

He walks towards the man, who whimpers at his approach. Illya stands behind him, tightens the blindfold around his head, and then holds his hand back. He aims and hits his neck with a flash. The man tenses, jaw locked, and then— nothing. The Kiss has always served him well.

“You still have to teach me that,” Lavender says over her shoulder, opening the door with her one hand while grabbing her gun with the other.

Illya huffs, walks away from the man and slings the duffle-bag over his shoulder. “Gaby has dibs.”

“You could teach us both,” Lavender says casually as they walk out the doorway. “You’ve successfully taught Solo already. It shouldn’t be any trouble.”

“It took Solo three months,” Illya says. He follows her down the iron staircase. The night is cold, a dog barks a few streets away. There are no people to be seen. The parking lot shines in the dim moonlight— it had been raining only moments ago.

“Yes, but that’s Solo,” Lavender says. “That doesn’t prove anything.”

Illya glares at her despite himself, and her airy chuckle haunts him until they reach their motorcycles and drive off.

It’s going to be a long trip.

———

Once they’ve informed the right people, they decide to go slow. Moss stays on the sidelines, speaking to so many secret agencies that her location becomes classified even to them. She’s trying to find any trace of other Ghosts in the world, while Illya and Lavender keep busy with Edward Charron, who’s presumably hiding away in his fortress.

An hour before they leave, Illya stares at the phone in the hotel hallway. He knows the number by heart, he knows he can get a secured line within seconds. Knows he can hear his voice within a minute.

He knows Napoleon would pick up.

Lavender walks up beside him, says, “Are you ready?”

Illya drags his eyes from the phone, sets his shoulders, and nods once. As they walk out, Illya doesn’t look back. The hunt begins. There is no room to indulge himself anymore.

Illya stalks dark alleys, places mics and cameras in the nooks people won’t think to look. Illya peruses the surroundings, learns each rooftop, each divit, each window. He feels confident in his abilities; people don’t notice him as he makes his rounds. Lavender only a few paces behind, silent as the night. He motions for her to stop; a troupe of guards passes by and Illya sneaks around them, going through the lines and back without anyone noticing. It’s easy, but not too easy, nothing about it triggers a suspicion that their smooth going is a sign of trap. They’re just not prepared for someone like him.

Illya is patient like this: the late hour, an unfolding plan. He is quietly deadly when he needs to be, and this surety makes him capable of stalking through the whole compound without once drawing his gun. He knows how to be a shadow, and he knows how to make people silent, if they catch him still.

He doubles back to where Lavender had stayed to keep watch, and they rush back to the hotel together, the first rays of sunlight starting to reveal them. Illya feels exhilarated, and he lets the feeling flow through him in the safety of their rooms. A different kind of adrenaline pulses through him now, one made of accomplishment and pride. They trade information, Illya describes easy routes in and out, while Lavender has copious amounts of notes on the rotation of the guards, their patterns, weapons and codes. They have enough to infiltrate if need be, and they begin making plans until noon. Breakfast cereal and nefarious planning have always mixed well, in Illya’s experience.

Illya staggers into bed afterwards, doesn’t look at the phone as he walks past, and falls into a deep sleep, dreams washing in and out of his mind’s eye as he desperately tries to push them away.

He dreams of Napoleon, gasping for breath. He dreams of a bullet wound, of bleeding out, of being too late, too slow, too—

He dreams of Napoleon, the absence in his eyes, the emptiness. He looks dead but Illya knows he isn’t. He looks dead, but Illya knows he’s just lost. Illya dreams, horrid awful dreams, that rise in fall with suffering, rejection and loss. Then, just before he jumps awake, he dreams of coming home, and Napoleon being gone. Lost. Failed. Alone. Illya hadn’t been there to keep him there. Illya hadn’t been there to tell him to breathe.

Illya stumbles out of bed, hurries to the phone, pushes the buttons until the click and call restarts his heart and the polite tone of a secretaries voice informs him the line is secure. He doesn’t call Napoleon. He can’t call Napoleon. But he knows who else he can ask.

“Everything alright?” Gaby says, straight to the point.

“Gaby,” Illya says, his voice rough from disuse. “I need to know.”

“Solo is fine, Illya,” Gaby says, and she follows it with a sigh.

“Any more—“ Illya asks, stopping himself midway as the image of Napoleon down on his knees, gasping for air, fills his mind again.

“Yes,” Gaby says, softer now, and the confirmation sets Illya’s skin on fire. “But I’m keeping an eye on him,” she adds. “I’ll make sure he’s okay, alright?”

“I know,” Illya says, after a deep breath, and now her assurances draw up embarrassment. He’s supposed to be on mission. He’s supposed to have a clear mind. He’s distracted, compromised.

“You can talk to him yourself,” Gaby says. “You know that.”

“No,” Illya says quickly, “Don’t tell him I called.”

Gaby sighs again, and the pause drags on endlessly until she says, “I won’t.”

Illya closes his eyes in relief. His heart beats faster than it had yesterday, and that fact only makes his shame worse. “Thank you.”

“Be careful with yourself Illya,” Gaby says. “Just— be careful.”

“I will,” Illya says, and lets himself lean against the wall. His feet curl into the scratchy carpet of the hallway. A cold breeze passes through. He doesn’t want to be here. He wants to go home. “We’re getting close.”

“Good,” Gaby says, and it sounds like she wants to say something else, but she cuts herself off and starts again. “That’s good. Let me know when you’re done.”

“Yes,” Illya replies. “Lavender will fax in a report to Waverly soon. You should be able to get the information.”

“If I ask nicely,” Gaby says, a little smile in her voice now. Illya relaxes immediately. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

She doesn’t clarify if she means the report or Napoleon as they say their goodbyes, but Illya takes it to be the latter, just so he can let it all go for the moment. He needs to, otherwise he’ll fail this. He can’t fail this.

———

As they collect their intel over the days, Lavender feels confident enough to plan a trip in the daylight.

“I want pictures,” she says. “He’s been in there for almost a month, which means he’s fled here the second after it all went down. There are windows to the west-side of the building, it seems like it’s some sort of office. I want to see what’s in there before we’re going in. If we set off any alarms, we need to know what they could be trying to burn and hide.”

Illya nods, folds his hands on the dinner table and takes another look at the blueprints Lavender had swindled from a local government office. They’re more meant for emergency exits and fire protocols, but they service well enough for planning a recon mission too.

“Do you want to go alone?” Illya asks her, looking up as he adds, “You would have to go through the b-side, if we don’t want to risk official channels. I don’t think they’ll let strangers in at this time.”

“Alone would be better, there is not enough space for the two of us to hide,” Lavender agrees with a thoughtful frown. “Though a quick get-away would be serviceable if it all goes to shit.”

“Car or motorcycle?” Illya asks.

“Motorcycle,” Lavender says decisively, and she taps her finger onto the edge of the map. “There is an outcropping of rock there, you could hide there and wait until I come back. If anyone sees me at the compound, I’ll go into the forest and come out to the edge of where you are. Trees make good cover if they’re close together, and I need those if they start shooting.”

“Wear a vest anyway,” Illya says.

“Of course,” Lavender says with a smile. “Who do you take me for— Gaby?”

Illya huffs. Gaby’s refusal to wear bulletproof vests in some situations resulted in heart palpitations of both Napoleon and Illya. “She says that if she does it well, they won’t shoot. Apparently hiding a bullet proof vest under a dress is difficult. It betrays her to trained targets. Secretaries and nurses don’t wear them.”

“That’s why I don’t pretend to be anything else,” Lavender says, starting to gather up the documents. “But I can’t say it doesn’t impress me.”

Illya smiles. “That it should.”

They decide to go in the afternoon, a few hours before the next guard shift change. Charron must have some financial issues now that he’s on the most wanted lists of various agencies, because the guards have dwindled to only three shifts, who have to take on a full 24 hours of guard duty. By the time they reach the compound, the morning guards have worked for just long enough to make them a little slower, a little more distracted. Those small mistakes can make all the difference.

Lavender slides from the motorcycle with a camera around her neck. Within a few steps, she disappears around the corner without a sound. Illya crosses his arms and leans against the motorcycle and waits.

And during this quiet anxiety of nothing, nagging thoughts take hold again, their long blackened claws cleaving Illya’s mind. He’s standing besides a small asphalt roadway that leads away from the Fortress into a forest covering the mountains. Illya can look into the valley where the village lies beside a small river that shimmers into the sunlight. The houses are small and traditional, wooden frames and inlaid stone bases. Where the thick forests ends, meadows begin, now in full bloom with all kinds of flowers, yellow and pink between large wafts of grass.

The view reminds Illya of one of Napoleon’s paintings, but here the scene feels peaceful, and Napoleon’s paintings always have a harrowing sensation to them. Tense in a way Illya doesn’t understand.

This little town shows no sign of housing the safe-house of a criminal family only a mile away, but you can’t see darkness in shadows if you don’t know where to look. Illya doesn’t know where Napoleon hides his. He doesn’t ask, he doesn’t want to impede, but what from he remembers from that night, Napoleon’s past is starting to unravel at the seams. Illya remembers the horrible image Napoleon had been staring at, a vision of death, a display of war. Illya’d never been on the front lines himself, but he knows the stories, saw the consequences in the men he worked with. He had known, from Oleg’s debrief, that Napoleon had been there, but he’d never imagined the extent of scars Napoleon still carries from that time. He’s so good in covering them up. Or he was, it seems.

Illya drags a hand through his hair, brushing out a falling leaf, and the movement shakes him out of his mind. The sun is lower, streams of light now passing through the trees behind him. Illya shivers in the sudden cold and comms Lavender. He must have been distracted for hours.

“Status?”

“Mission complete,” Lavender replies immediately, breathless in a way that makes Illya’s blood rush. “I’m heading back. One minute.”

Illya grabs the motorcycle and starts the motor. He pushes it up to the edge of the road and sits, ready to go the moment Lavender arrives.

There is a sudden sound behind him, and he turns just in time to see Lavender jump from the top of the alcove, and land in a smooth roll. She slides up behind him, camera in one hand, and says, “Go.”

Illya taps his hands against the counter while Lavender develops the pictures in the bathroom. A part of him wants to order her to move away and let him do it, but he knows that he hasn’t the right to, and judging from the way his eyes constantly drag back to the phone on the wall, he doesn’t have the focus for it either. He doesn’t know what to expect, and that makes him feel shaky. He only has Lavender’s tense expression to go off, the quick shake of her head as she walked away from his questions. “I need to be sure,” she’d said, and left Illya to boil in the endless possibilities that might entail.

It’s getting late by the time Lavender comes back to their shared kitchen. Her long hair is tied in a messy bun and she’s holding a small stack of photographs in her hands, walking as if they’re worth thousands. Illya stands from the barstool he’d been waiting in and makes space for her as she starts to lay them out. He realises it’s become too dark to see them well, so he walks around the counter to put the light on.

“It’s bad, Kuryakin,” Lavender says. Her voice is so grave that it tightens Illya’s chest. He walks towards her hesitantly, almost scared to see what could have caused her clear distress.

Illya leans over her shoulder to look, and then freezes mid breath.

The pictures are low lit shots from a dirty window, fuzzy around the edges but clear enough for details. Lavender had been able make good images despite the circumstances, and the collection reveals their initial suspicion to be correct. They show a makeshift office, with Charron sitting with his feet on his desk. He has a phone to his ear, in the middle of a conversation that makes him look frustrated, but Illya’s attention is drawn by something else in the background. The wall behind Charron is absolutely covered in pictures, large and small, continuing beyond what the frame catches.

Illya grabs the picture and holds it up to the lamp hanging over the counter. He wants to check, he _needs_ be sure. But the light only confirms what he already knew.

It’s Napoleon.

All the pictures behind Charron are of Napoleon and Illya can’t even see how many there are. As he looks at them places and memories start to filter into realisation. He recognizes the airport, Napoleon grimacing in his wheelchair while Gaby pushes. He grabs another and squints until he sees a picture of Napoleon walking out of the hospital, Illya’s arm around his waist. And then the one beside it shows Napoleon sleeping in a hospital bed, almost peaceful, if it wasn’t for the bandages all around his abdomen and the IV line in his wrist.

Alone, venerable, hurt.

Someone had sneaked in, past the nurses, the doctors, and— Illya. They had passed Illya. Someone could have attacked, someone could have finished the job Delilah had stared—

“Kuryakin,” Lavender says with a low voice. Illya doesn’t understand how she can sound so calm when he wishes he could scream and growl the fear out of chest. But his lungs are too tight and he’s lost his voice. Something flashes behind his eyes.

Lavender takes the photo from his trembling hands, it’s edges crumpled and tearing between Illya’s fingers.

“There is more,” she says. There is nothing about her tone that betrays it, but Illya can see the apology in her eyes. She motions to the counter again, and points to another stack of pictures. Illya takes a deep breath and takes them in his hands.

From the first glance it’s clear that she changed positions. These ones are from above, a gap in the ceiling or through the grate of a fan. Illya doesn’t know how she did it, but all thoughts of deciphering it rushes out of his mind as he sees what she had pointed. The picture shows Charron’s desk from above, and on the large oak monstrosity lays another set of pictures of Napoleon.

At once Illya understands what she meant. This is bad. This is the greatest breach of security they’ve had so far. The shots are mostly profile, always outside. There are pictures of Napoleon in the park, drawing. There are pictures of him sitting on the terrace with Illya and Gaby beside him. And there are pictures without Illya, only Gaby, as they walk to and from the Hotel. And then a set of them of Napoleon alone; smoking on the balcony, or painting behind his window.

“They are recent,” Lavender says, unnecessarily, but Illya understands the need to voice their predicament. He can’t do anything else but nod. His throat is burning, anger pulsing through from his gut to his shaking fists. He almost grabs a picture of Charron and tears it apart, but struggles within to control himself.

1, 2, 3. _Breathe._ He can use this anger, use this hunger, use the beast. Whatever Charron is planning, he came too close. He’s threatening Napoleon. He will feel the consequences.

“I already informed HQ. They’ve established constant surveillance of Solo and Teller. But they can’t know, any deviation from behaviour might trigger whatever Charron is planning. We have to keep it classified, Kuryakin. He’s been on this for at least a month. We’re taking all the precautions we can. Do you understand?”

Illya turns away. He distances himself from her and her forced silence. Napoleon is in danger but doesn’t know, can’t know. Napoleon has been in danger and they didn’t know, and maybe it’s already too late. Napoleon is in danger and Illya’s hasn’t heard his voice in two weeks. He should have called earlier. He should have—

He’s walking before he decided too. So close. The numbers fly through his mind.

“Kuryakin.” Lavender says it like an order. In a way it is.

Illya forces himself to nod. She’s his superior, and she is right. This isn’t what he is meant to do. Calling, wanting, wishing. He has his anger, he has his goal, he has the source of everything that happened since the Ghost resurfaced. He knows what needs to be done.

He moves his body in another direction, away from the phone and towards the sniper rifle on the coffee table. He’d been cleaning it this morning, never got around to finishing it, too busy waiting, uselessly waiting. Now the familiar task of putting the weapon back together refocusses his fury to something controllable, something with structure. The click and drag from the pieces, the stability of his fingers. He breathes, and loads the gun.

“Whatever you deem necessary,” Waverly had said just before Illya left. “You know my usual policies, but this time they tried to take one of ours. I trust you to make the right calls.”

Illya had taken the permission for what it was. Thankful without words.

The memory disperses. The rifle is heavy in his hand. Now, it’s time to make that call. It’s time to go on a hunt. Illya slips the gun around his shoulder and grabs the black ski-mask beside it. He puts it on. Lavender throws him his gloves.

“Charron will die tonight,” Illya says eventually, silently. He doesn’t have to yell for this.

Lavender nods, a grim smile on her face. “He will.”

Lavender leaves to tie up loose ends, as Illya searches the rooms for any signs that they were here. He’s done before her, and it only takes a moment of hesitation before he grabs the phone and calls the number he’s been ordered not to call.

She is his superior, she is right, but Illya doesn’t care.

He isn’t meant to do this, he knows this, and how much he doesn’t give a shit about that fact is almost a revelation, but it’s drowned by the beating of his heart as he waits for the call to connect.

Illya breathes, clenches his fists and releases them again. Each second makes his chest tighter, his head hurt more. He waits, forgets to breathe, and just when he thinks Napoleon’s voice will come, the phone clicks off. No one picks up.

Illya presses his forehead to the wall, clenching his jaw to the wave of thoughts that overwhelm him. This isn’t proof. This doesn’t mean that Charron already succeeded. This doesn’t mean Napoleon is dead. Lavender wouldn’t lie about that. Lavender wouldn’t hide the truth to keep him functioning, to keep him useful. That wouldn’t be— That can’t—

Maybe she did.

Illya breathes and with it all his fears go numb. He knows this feeling, and he’s suddenly glad for it. _Don’t show them the pain. It’s better that way._

Maybe Napoleon died. Maybe he’s bleeding out on his balcony, another bullet, but now his chest. Oleg would have lied. He would have done anything to make sure his weapon was most effective. It would be logical. A killer has no use if it’s on it’s knees, broken by the loss of someone it doesn’t deserve. A weapon shouldn’t experience heartbreak.

Illya takes another breath, revels in the numbness of his mind. His hands start to shake at the visions in his mind but he takes the nothing that flows through every corner of his consciousness and makes his hands go steady with it. Don’t show. Don’t.

He doesn’t know if Lavender lied, but in this moment it doesn’t matter. He knows what he needs to do. He knows what he wants to do. After Charron has taken his last breath, Illya will learn the truth, and he will let himself feel the consequences, whatever they might be.

———

In the end, it is easy. It always has been.

Charron keeps to schedule, and Illya keeps his finger on the trigger as he waits for Lavender to infiltrate. He holds his aim, the crosshairs steady on Charron’s head for almost ten minutes until Lavender gives the signal and Illya shoots. There is no hesitation, no guilt. Just the click of the gun, the breaking of glass, and the beautiful sight of Charron slumping over his desk.

Illya moves immediately, only sees a small flash of Lavender through his scope as she stalks into the room, starting to gather the phone and all the documents she can find.

He takes his gun apart in quick succession, and places them in his duffle-bag. He climbs off the emergency ladder behind the boiler room, waits exactly 15 seconds until the guard running past rushes out of sight, and then jumps off the roof.

Illya runs, pushes his body, and though his face is stoic, there is a grin deep inside.

As the outside fence nears, Illya moves the bag to his back, and drops to the ground, crawling through the hole they’d made only moments ago. Once he’s reached the outskirts of the property, alarms start to go off behind him. The adrenaline pushes the grin to his face now, and a part of him pangs for the matching smile Napoleon would have given if he had been there, running side by side as they are meant to.

But there is no time to think about that as an orange flare lights up the sky. Illya uncovers the motorcycle under a heap of leaves and jumps on it, its engine roaring along with the beast in his chest. He hears her motor before he sees her, and doesn’t flinch as Lavender pushes through the trees, front light darkened with tape.

“Target confirmed,” she says, as she flashes past him. Illya speeds to keep up. “I’ve got everything.”

“He’s dead,” Illya says, it’s not a question, but her responding nod still brings a wave of something close to relief through him. But he doesn’t feel it. Not yet.

“He’s dead,” Lavender confirms. “Let’s go.”

They drive.

———

It starts with a phone call. Satellite.

Lavender picks up and walks outside. Illya doesn’t listen in. He waits. There isn’t much he can do as he looks around in their temporary residence— a barn touched by age and use. There is the fossil of a vintage tractor lying in the back, all rust and dust. Illya wrings his hands together, the cold getting to him now that he’s stopped moving. He feels like he’s been flung out of orbit, careening through space. They’ve been on the run for ten hours, no one followed them but it’s protocol to rush after a target is killed. No need to stay around for the authorities when those things are easily sorted with straight suits and hushed diplomacy behind closed doors. And there is a more than a slight chance that Charron had more capable people on his payroll. If he could convince Delilah to work for him there is no limit to the kinds of killers that could be on their trail.

Which means staying low, keeping their heads down, and waiting on the all clear before a plane can pick them up. The sudden stillness after all the adrenaline has Illya reeling and he clenches his fist to from keep crushing the papers in his hands.

Lavender had shown them after they’d set up, but she’d been called before she could work through him, and in a twist of fate they’re in a language Illya can’t actually read. Who would have thought Charron had chosen Xhosa as his encryption strategy. Illya places them to the side, in an attempt to stall their ultimate destruction. He has enough self-reflection in the moment to recognize he has little to no control over the shakes pushing it’s way outside of his stomach, and the anger — as powerful as ever — make those shocks become dangerous.

Illya tries to gather himself in the last sunlight of the day. Through the dirty window he can just see the sun starting to set, giving the sky a deep red shine. It reminds Illya of the blood on his hands, though it shouldn’t. He checks anyway— clean and trembling.

He’ll always have his list. He’ll always have the people that died because of his actions even though they shouldn’t have. He’ll always have that burden of guilt to bare. But Charron doesn’t add to that, as doesn’t Delilah, and the two other people that died by Illya’s hand these last two years. Four people would have been a reason for discipline back in the KGB, but it gives Illya a sick sense of pride.

He pushes it away, the sensation doesn’t mix well with the rest of the chaos in his mind. He takes a breath. He needs to gather himself.

Footsteps start to near, Lavender walks past the window, pacing, her voice a low murmur that draws Illya out of his mind. She seems to be agitated, but almost finished. The second the thought comes, Lavender stops mid pace and nods to herself, the nod of someone who’s been given an order, and she hangs up.

Illya straightens his back, places his hands on his knees, and makes sure nothing of his inner weakness can be seen. He decides to stay seated, he doesn’t want to seem intimidating just in case that will make it harder. He doesn’t know if she will listen, but he has to try, as much as a large part of him doesn’t want to hear the answer. His chest is a black hole waiting to tear apart. He won’t let it implode just yet.

“Agent,” Illya says as Lavender enters. Formal, rigid, respectful. A permission to speak freely more than it is a greeting. He knows Lavender will hear it for what it is.

Lavender turns to face him, a frown touches her face for only a moment until it’s washed away in a blank expression, bemused maybe. Napoleon would have known. Illya can see the sudden tension in her posture, most probably called on by the address. Illya hasn’t called her that since the second day of this mission.

“Yes, Kurakin,” she says, equally formal, equally toneless in expectation. A direct answer to Illya’s indirect question.

“I have completed my mission,” Illya says, and it immediately becomes apparent he isn’t able to do this without falling into old routines. The monotone set of his voice and the expectant set of his shoulders is as familiar as it is inescapable, as if it’s carved into him like the grooves of a record. It’s all a script of survival in the end. Illya clears his throat and pushes away the need to apologize for his pause. Oleg never appreciated him being slow. “May I request full honesty.”

Lavender takes a while to reply, enough to make shivers go over Illya’s spine. He isn’t sure if he’s responding to a memory, or the situation he’s in now.

“About what,” she says in the end.

Illya should have been more specific. He knows this. He’s been told many times.

“About the status of Agent Solo,” Illya responds immediately, and he isn’t naive enough to hope that Lavender didn’t catch the sight catch in his voice.

Lavender takes a few steps forward, enough to land in Illya’s peripheral. He’s been staring straight ahead this whole time, and didn’t even notice. He turns to her, the movement a mountain of effort. Lavender’s face isn’t black anymore, it’s puzzled. Illya can’t read her, and she hasn’t responded yet. The combination of facts makes Illya’s heart pump wildly.

“I have accomplished the mission,” Illya reminds her, pleads with her, but his voice is robotic without him wanting it to be. “I deserve— I request the truth.”

“Illya,” Lavender says, and all traces of formality have left her. Her voice is round in softness, and a sliver of regret passes over her face. Illya collapses from the inside, but his body stays straight, in position, waiting for orders— waiting for the truth.

“I’ve told you the truth,” Lavender says, impossibly. “Solo is fine, he’s under protection and safe.”

Illya swallows, tries to see what he’s missed. Maybe there is more to be done. Maybe they need him for something else. “Hearing the truth won’t impede my efficiency in the field,” Illya says, lies, “I promise.”

Lavender only sighs, and then drags a hand through her hair. “God, the lot of you are—” She shakes her head as she cuts herself off, and when she speaks again her rank is back on her tongue. “Agent Kuryakin, I hereby grant you the permission to speak freely about the current circumstances with Agent Teller and Agent Solo, provided they don’t deviate from their behavior or try to play hero.”

She tosses him the phone, Illya barely catches it in his confusion, and then stalks outside again, mumbling something under her breath. The KGB is mentioned between an abundance of curses. Illya doesn’t have the space to process that while he has the phone burning into his palms. A tidal wave of contradictions threaten to drown him and the only thing he concludes is that informing him of the death of a partner like this would be crueler than he would have expected from UNCLE. The hope that conclusion sets alight makes him almost heave.

After a moment of total stillness, in breath and in mind, Illya shakes himself from his terror induced indecision and lets his fingers fly over the buttons. And that impulsivity leads him to call Gaby, instead of Napoleon, because a brave man would have called the source of his fears, a weakling would avoid the experience of the call not connecting at all costs.

“Illya,” Gaby says after the first beep. Even in her short response, the question in the name is clear. _Illya, why did you call. Illya, why did you call_ me _, again._

“Where is Napoleon?” Illya asks, the question rips out of his throat but once again his voice doesn’t match the earthquake inside of him. The inability to be human, to _express_ , feels like a gun to his head, the barrel cold and stinging. He’s already broken himself with this. He’ll never be okay again.

Gaby takes a while to respond, or—

Illya is so lost within collapsed ruins that he can’t hear the passage of time. Every second feels like an age and now he has nothing to go on. Gaby wouldn’t lie to him, he has to believe this, but maybe she’s trying to find a way to soften the blow, not knowing that the delivery won’t matter; the sudden void in Illya’s life would swallow him whole before the last words fell out of her mouth. No matter how sweet they are.

But—

“Napoleon is right here,” Gaby says, and time rights itself again. Illya’s limbo turns into whiplash. “He’s painting in his room to be exact, but if you want to speak to him I’m sure he’ll be glad to take a break.”

Illya feels like he’s balancing on tightrope, miles above an ocean that wants to see him die. One misstep, and he’ll fall. The wind outside howls, drags Illya back in the barn again. Illya grits his teeth, pushes the sensation away; he needs to concentrate. Gaby wouldn’t lie to him. “No,” Illya says, and for once he’s relieved for the numbness in his voice. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Okay,” Gaby says, slow and full of suspicion. “What did you want to talk about then? Because if you have nothing, I sure have something I want some information on.”

For a second Illya’s overwhelmed by gratitude that Gaby has given him an out— that he can just let her lead this conversation while Illya comes to grips with the reality that Napoleon isn’t dead, and tries to stomp the growling desire to have this be proven by his own senses. By voice, by smile, by touch. By his heartbeat under his fingertips. Illya’s hands ache.

But that gratitude is immediately doused in a wash of dread when Gaby takes his silence to ask her questions.

“I saw agents following us today, when we went to the art store to get some supplies. Our agents — don’t freak out, I confirmed — followed us to and from the store, and then kept watch as we were in our rooms. So naturally, I asked one of them what the hell was going on, and the only thing they said that they’d been ordered to provide full surveillance on Napoleon at the request of Agent Lavender. When I asked for more, they dared to answer that it was classified. So, Kuryakin, you have exactly one chance to explain what’s going on or so help me god I will go to Waverly’s office and throw his precious tea-set against a wall. No one has the right to keep us in the dark like this.”

Illya drags his free hand through his hair once Gaby reaches the end of her monologue and can’t help but huff in amusement on the visual she provided. “Don’t hurt the tea-set,” he says, “I’m sorry for not telling you earlier. The order to keep this underwraps was only revoked two seconds before I made this call.”

“Oh,” Gaby says, and most of her frustration has left her already, she’d probably expected more silence and denial, something Illya can only understand. She hums thoughtfully for a second. Illya hears the wheels turning in her mind from here. “You called because you wanted to know if Napoleon was... okay.”

“— alive,” Illya says, at the same time.

Gaby takes a quick breath and lets it out. “Jesus.”

“Yes,” Illya says. He realises that he’s been tugging at his own hair and quickly releases and lays his hand in his lap. “Does Napoleon know? Did he see?”

“No,” Gaby says, and sighs. “No, I don’t think so. He’s been out of it the last few days and today was the first time since, well pretty much since the surgery, that he seemed actually happy to be alive. It’s been a rough time, and I didn’t want to ruin it before I knew what was going on.”

“Good,” Illya says, trying to ignore the pain in his stomach at Gaby’s words. _Out of it. Rough time._ What matters is that he’s alive. What matters is that he had one day of happiness and it didn’t end in tragedy. A nefarious voice in the back of his mind adds, _Yet_.

“Keep an eye on him,” Illya says instead of trying to drag the exact nature of Napoleon’s mental state out of Gaby. “We have reasons to believe that Charron planned some kind of revenge.”

“Oh no you’re not doing that to me,” Gaby says, “That’s your report, that’s what you say when you need to stay between the lines of order and bureaucracy. Illya, tell me exactly what you found, and tell me exactly what you think of it. Don’t hide, for just this moment, please?”

And with that Illya’s walls break. He finds himself doubled over in his lap, gasping for breath that does not come. “He had pictures of him,” Illya rasps out with the last air in his lungs. “Pictures of him in the hospital. He was asleep and hurt and someone was there, someone got past us. Gaby. He could’ve—”

“What?” Illya hears Gaby on the other end of the line, tone loud and shocked. “What Charron had pictures of Napoleon?” But it sounds too far away. Illya’s still talking.

“— I should have been there, Gaby. He could have been killed so easily. He was weak. He still is. Are you sure that he’s alive?”

“Illya— Illya, calm down,” Gaby says, louder now, and it’s then that Illya realises he’s dropped the phone on the ground during his collapse. He picks it up.

“I’m sorry,” he says, forcing the numbness back in. It goes scratching and screeching. “I’m calm.”

“Gottverdammt,” Gaby curses, “Don’t do that. Let yourself—” There is a sound in the background and Illya pieces together that Gaby has thrown herself on a sofa. “I need more sleep for this,” she mumbles under her breath before saying in a normal voice, “Napoleon is safe, and now that I know something is going on I’m going to make sure it stays that way.”

“Thank you,” Illya says, “Thank you.”

“I do want to know more,” Gaby continues. “But I think you need sleep too before you get yourself in a spiral you can’t get out of.”

Illya nods, and then remembers she can’t see that. “Yes, I should.”

“Also,” Gaby says, “here.”

Illya frowns, confused on what she’s trying to say, but as he waits for her to elaborate, he catches the hint of a voice in the background, a melody, a song behind a door. _Che vuole questa musica, stasera._

Illya’s breath catches.

_Che mi riporta un poco, del passato._

“Napoleon is fine, Illya,” Gaby says now, warm with the voice still flowing behind her. “He’s okay and he will be when you get back. Do you know when you’re coming?”

“I don’t know,” Illya says, “Lavender contacted Waverly, but we haven’t debriefed yet. I hope we go tonight.”

“Start packing,” Gaby says with a smile. “Just in case. We’ll be glad to have you back.”

Illya stands at her words, his joints ache from being in the same position for so long. As he walks through the barn and checks his bags, he slowly feels the life flow back into him. “I want to go home, Gaby,” Illya says, despite himself. He clears his throat, sudden embarrassment catching him. But it is true, he wants to be home, be there to protect and to live and just be happy again.

“I know,” Gaby replies. “Soon.” Then she sighs, a few moments of silence as Illya stuffs the last things in his bag before she continues hesitantly, “I talked with Napoleon.”

Illya crushes the fabric in his hand and presses the phone against his ear harshly, like he heard it wrong. But Gaby doesn’t say anything else and with cold horror Illya realises this can only mean one thing. “— you told him.”

“I didn’t,” Gaby says, frustrated for a second.”I didn’t. I promised you. We talked about something else. I just want you to talk to him when you’re back. It’s important.”

“I’m not going to tell him,” Illya says with gritted teeth, trying to portray confidence while knowing he only sounds scared.

“I know, just— he respects you, both as a partner and as a close friend. There are some losses of his past that have been brought back by the recent events,” Gaby explains, and in small increments Illya loosens the hold on the shirt in his hands and takes a deep breath. His heart is beating like he’s been running for his life, and it’s almost comedic, how this is what he fears most, while he can bear the threat of death daily.

Gaby’s words trickle through the haze and Illya closes his eyes when he realises what she means. Napoleon gasping for air. Panic in his eyes. “I know,” Illya snaps, “I found him.”

“And you helped him with it,” Gaby agrees, “I did too. Yesterday. He seems better now, but I think your support would help him through. He’s willing to talk, but he won’t ask. He doesn’t want to burden you.”

Illya can’t help but huff at that. “He won’t.”

“I told him that, but it’s Solo,” Gaby says, halfway fond and resigned. “I think you could really— You’re important to him, Illya. Never discount that.”

Everything in Illya wants to protest against that, but he has a wealth of memories that only support her assessment. Moments where Napoleon showed clear affection for his team, Illya included. Moments where he went out of his way to make Illya comfortable after getting hurt. The recent events have only given him more treacherous pieces of evidence; Napoleon letting Illya take care of him, cooking for the both of them, easy conversation through the night. Nevermind the fact that Napoleon got hurt in the first place to save them both. No matter how hard Illya tries to douse the flames these moments bring— Gaby is right, presuming Napoleon doesn’t care about him would be foolish at this point.

So instead of denying her the truth, Illya says nothing, and zips up his bag.

“Last thing,” Gaby says after the comfortable silence has stretched on long enough. “Don’t tell me I can’t tell him about the pictures, please. I understand your need for silence about your feelings for him, and I will not break that promise. But I’ve been keeping these calls a secret too now. Napoleon has been missing you, I can see it, and I’ve not been able to tell him that you actually do want to call him, but you’re too scared to do so. And I understand that— I respect that you’re not ready. But don’t ask me to lie to him about something else. He is my friend too, and I think I’ve reached my limit on the secrets I can keep from him for a long time.”

Illya listens to her voice almost break at the end, and he realises that this is the most exhausted and sad Illya has heard her since he remembers, or at least in a different way.

Gaby, who bites through pain and defeat time and time again, drags the both of them back into safety by pure willpower and trust, now sounds like she’s reaching the end of her rope, stretched thin between loyalties, because of the fear of one. Illya drags a hand across his face and a slicing thought cuts through his mind. How much has he ruined by letting her see? How can he drag her through this? It’s not her fault that he hadn’t been able to control himself in the hospital; she only saw what he had failed to hide. He has pushed her into the web of lies he’s been living in for years. And though he’d been content within that darkness, Gaby isn’t, and he’s forcing her to stay anyway.

“I’m sorry, Illya,” Gaby says, the moment Illya intended to scrape words together and apologize to her. “I’m really sorry, I know how scary this is, and like I said I’m not telling him about— Just, I’m starting to get tired of navigating the things I can’t say to him about you, and at the moment it’s everything. He hasn’t heard from you in almost two weeks.”

“No, no,” Illya says. “I am sorry, I shouldn’t have—” Illya stands up again, paces through the room. “I will talk to him when I get back,” Illya promises, because even though the idea makes him want to flee, he can’t stand to hear Gaby sound like this. “I will. I won’t tell. I can’t tell. But I will talk about the rest, and you can tell him about the pictures and the calls, if you want. No secrets, besides— besides that one. Is that okay?”

Gaby huffs, and Illya hears amused relief in her voice. “One secret we can handle. We’re spies after all. Well, I’m going to be working this off in the workshop, and I think you need to debrief with Lavender. Thank you for calling, Illya. See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” Illya repeats, heart in his throat, and she hangs up.

Tomorrow suddenly seems terrifyingly close. Illya swallows. But he has promised, and he should keep to it, just like Gaby did despite the fact that he’s forcing her to lie to a close friend. Illya digs his nails into the palm of his hand. He’s been selfish, and though there is nothing in the world that will make him ruin everything good he has, the idea of twisting them all into this web of lies further makes Illya feel sick with guilt. There is no way he can fix this, no way he can undo the damage that is done. He can only hope not to add to it, so there, in a cold old barn in the middle of nowhere, Illya makes the decision that if Napoleon were to ask him about—

He won’t lie. If Napoleon asks him, he won’t lie. It’s the best he can do, and Illya’s chest hurts with the disaster that would unfold, but he will face it if it comes. He owes them both that.

And somehow, despite the possibility of impending doom, his newfound clarity makes his wish to go home even greater. As if the constant doubt and indecision had made him afraid to go back where he wants to be. Illya rubs the palm of his hand, trying to wash away the indentations of nails, as the tendrils of joy begin to filter through his body. Napoleon is okay, and he will be there soon to see him. Napoleon isn’t dead, and Illya can go home.

But as Illya should have learned a long time ago, his life never goes as he wants it to go, because a few minutes after Illya made his decision, Lavender walks in with a frustrated gaze.

“The mission just got extended,” Lavender says. “We’re not going home, we’re going back to France.”

“Why?” Illya almost snaps, and he tries to reign himself in. “What did Waverly order?”

“It’s not Waverly, exactly,” Lavender says. “The agents we left with the warehouse have only just noticed a breach in security. Someone went in there and stole something, while we were gathering evidence.”

“What did they take?” Illya says, and though he wants to slam his fist against a wall, he’s already giving in. This is how the job goes. You never have control.

“We’ve been ordered to find out,” Lavender says, and she sounds almost as annoyed as Illya pretends not to feel. “Don’t worry, Kuryakin. If this takes more than a month, I’m going to officially disintegrate this mission. They can send someone else on that wild goose chase.”

A month. Illya had been preparing to speak to Napoleon for the first time in two weeks and now he’s going be without him for another month. Back to the place Napoleon almost died, without having him close to know he’s okay. Illya clears his throat and says, “Can you inform HQ of the delay?” Because he knows he can’t handle calling Gaby back and informing her of this. He can’t handle her disappointment on top of his own.

“I will after we land,” Lavender says. “We’re leaving now.”

Illya follows, and a plane takes them farther away from home.

Somewhere, miles away, Napoleon doesn’t know what almost was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More pining, more angst, plot!! yep, I hope no one punched their screen at the last part because my beta reported back that she really wanted to ;) I'm already a scene in of the next chapter so that's at least going along. 
> 
> Again, really sorry for the time it took, I hope it was worth it despite the clifhanger! 
> 
> Y'all get your happy ending and confessions in the next one <3 hope to see you around then!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit Holy shit. It's done y'all. The second part of this chapter is already written, it only has to go through the editing progress, so I'm planning to post it tomorrow night. And then we're done!!!  
> Enjoy and all that <3

It takes 3 days for Illya to break. 

Their travel back to France is hampered by the precautions UNCLE has set into place. They don’t know when the warehouse had been stolen from. The perimeter they’d set up the day after Napoleon got shot hadn’t noticed anything until now, and though Illya doesn’t know if he agrees, the general assumption seems to be that Charron’s assassination had been the trigger. As such, someone had to have been contacted by someone in the Fortress. 

Illya only once thinks to ask if Gaby and Napoleon could join the mission — Napoleon might not be field ready but he’s useful in a sideline fashion too, however much he’d hate that — but he catches himself before he can. The protection and surveillance of the Hotel has ramped up to max, and both Gaby and Napoleon haven’t been allowed to leave the premises. Which is, Illya imagines, most probably causing them to both go insane. He pretends that he’s too busy to call, working from safe house to safe house, trying to gather information without needing to be at the warehouse. He’s also pretending he’s not avoiding the warehouse, even though Lavender has already been twice. 

But the truth is that he’s afraid calling will make the rift inside him worse. He misses them, he’s missed them throughout this mission, but now that his chance to go home has been snatched away from him, the floodgates have opened. Illya never knew he could miss someone this much. Napoleon is on his mind every second he isn’t working, and as such he tries to drown himself in the intel Lavender and Moss bring back. But he catches himself, replaying memories in his mind, imagining being home and not stuck trying to find some thief, while the stalker photographing Napoleon is still on the loose. 

It takes 3 days for him to break. 

The safe house set up close to the warehouse is a luxe one. It was made to provide for the agents that stayed by the warehouse and kept watch for any people who’d been in Delilah’s circles and might try to come back. Despite their apparent failures in that objective, their base of operations reminds Illya of HQ. They had turned an old office building into the space they’d needed with large desks, screens and computers, and of course an abundance of phones, all with secure lines. 

Illya stretches his fingers, dropping his pen on the large stack of paper he’d been sifting through. The guards at the front gate of the warehouse had been meticulous with their notes, and though Illya appreciates their effort, reading about squirrels and the weather was not something he had expected when he volunteered for this particular task. Anything to keep him away from the warehouse, so he supposes he deserves it. 

But the meandering French texts start to dance before his eyes, and Illya realises he’s truly and thoroughly bored. His mind is quick to remind him that he wouldn’t have been if a certain someone had been around as well. His eyes flicker toward the phones on the other side of the room. No one is sitting at the desks — Illya has missed lunch break once again — so there is no one to deter Illya from slinking towards one of the phones and dialing a number after no hesitation. As if the moment he let himself come close, the idea had set it’s teeth into him and there was no going back. 

The UNCLE secretary connects him to the phone in the workshop at Illya’s request, because both Napoleon’s and Gaby’s personal numbers had been terminated in the security protocol. 

Illya waits, the soft beeps slower than his racing heart, and for the first time Gaby’s responding greeting is more a disappointment than a relief. 

“Ah, I wondered how long it would take you,” she says, and Illya hears something metallic clanging in the background. “I assume everything has gone to shit and we’re stuck here in the meantime?”

“Yes,” Illya replies, a laugh slips out at her tone. “In short, yes. Lavender was supposed to brief you.” 

“She did,” Gaby says, “I still wanted to hear from you, though. We both did.” 

“Busy,” Illya lies. 

“I imagine,” Gaby allows, and something falls to the ground. “Shit. Well, I hope you’ll fix it soon because one of these days I’m going to use my new explosives on the agent that refuses to let me get a donut from down the street. It just isn’t the same if someone gets them for you, you know? Also,” Gaby takes a breath and lowers her voice a little before continuing, “Napoleon has been moping around missing you, so you have one chance to yell at me or else I’ll give this phone to him, for my own sanity.” 

Illya says nothing. 

Gaby laughs, “I take that as a ‘yes, please.’ Here, you have him. Solo?” 

There is a muffled sound and suddenly Illya hears Napoleon’s smooth chuckle over the line, so close he almost feels like he can touch it. 

“Hello, Peril,” Napoleon says, but it sounds like purring. At once Illya feels like he’s sweating from warmth. He’s forgotten how susceptible he is to this. “It’s been some time. How is the weather over there?” 

No animosity, no frustration, just pleasant surprise. Illya smiles wide despite himself and tries to reign himself in to respond deadpan, “Classified. Yours?” 

Napoleon laughs. “Same old, same old. Mostly sunny. I’m not allowed to actually experience it because we’re stuck in bonafide kindergarten. I’m not even allowed to go on the balcony anymore, Peril. And they took down the bushes below it, because the merc apparently had squatted in them. I get the need for caution, but come on. It was a pretty bush.” 

Illya leans back in the chair and smiles up on the ceiling. He tries to sound grave as he says, “I’m sorry for your loss, Cowboy.” 

“I can hear your snark over here, Peril, don’t try me,” Napoleon replies. “I know you don’t care but this is as dramatic the events are over here. It’s boring. I’m bored. Anything interesting to report? Please tell me you’ve used the shit-watch.” 

Illya hears Gaby snapping something, muffled in the background, and Napoleon chuckles before correcting himself. “— the toxin watch, I’m dearly sorry Gabs.” 

“No,” Illya says, trying to keep a laugh in his chest. “No, I haven’t. Sorry to disappoint. It’s mostly paperwork. I’m going through the reports of the guards. Don’t think it will be very useful. They missed a heist right under their nose.”

“Yeah,” Napoleon hums thoughtfully. “I’ve procured a large file from Waverly’s office — I did not steal it, I merely liberated it from the chaos it had found itself in, poor thing — and from what I could see, they set up a fairly solid perimeter, with good exit and entrance control. But if you were to ask me how I would get through that security, which no one did, idiotically, I’d have about 12 ways ready, right now. No wait— 14.” 

Illya huffs and rolls his eyes. “I’m asking now.” 

“Thought you were,” Napoleon says smartly, and Illya imagines his smug grin and bright eyes. He swallows, tries to push away the image and the lightness in his body that it brings, and attempts to fully listen to Napoleon’s flash fast monologue. 

“I think the western side is the weakest. They did have a patrol, but in the dark the trees lining the property would hinder thorough searching, and a deft thief could hide behind them in the interim. There are no lights placed with orientation into the forest, only into the property itself, so getting near the fence wouldn’t be a problem timing wise. I assume they’ve already checked the fence for any holes or cuts, but if this thief was someone who used to be working for either Charron or Delilah, who knows how many secret entrances and dark tunnels they’ve could have hidden around there. There must have been an escape route or two from the core of the building, in case of anything going awry, and the forest area leads directly to a small dirt road, where the getaway car could pick you up.” 

Illya’s distraction is completely washed away by the load of information coming towards him. He leans away from his seat and tries to reach for the documents on his desk without having to set the phone down. His precarious stretching is encouraged by an oblivious Napoleon who continues to chatter along. 

“So, I say you look for some loose dirt, close to the fence but just into the tree line, somewhere with suspiciously little grass or bush compared to the rest. I think it won’t be bigger than a few feet across, think sewer entrance, maybe it’s round too. Dig some sand away, shouldn’t be too deep in otherwise you can’t open it from beneath. Maybe get a metal detector, if they have the budget for it. I’d bet my entire collection of art supplies on this, but seeing that you bought them all that might not be fair. What do you think, Peril?”

Illya has successfully procured the files from his table, and sifts through them, spurred on by something Napoleon says. “I think you’re onto something,” Illya says, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder so he can use both hands to sort through his notes. 

“You think so?” Napoleon asks, equal parts smug and pleased, and Illya stops reading at once and smiles. 

“Yes,” Ilya says, and he knows this sensation so well; the feeling of the puzzle pieces on the tip of their tongues, the quiet rush of coming closer and closer to the answer. He realises that Napoleon hasn’t sounded this animated since the surgery, about anything, and the thought makes him take a slow, happy, breath. He’s missed this too, Illya realises. The mission, them working together, being useful. He can’t wait to get back in the field, and Illya can’t wait to meet him there with open arms. 

“I think you’re right, Cowboy,” Illya says, and he pulls the report he’s been looking for out of the pile. “One of the guards wrote about hearing a strange sound in the late hours of a night shift, about five days ago. Heavy iron, like someone dropped a wrench on concrete—”

“Or someone closed an iron trapdoor behind them,” Napoleon fills in, and barks a laugh. “They never should have benched me, Peril, I’m invaluable.”

Illya ignores the latter because it only makes him smile more, and want to wholeheartedly agree. “Further investigation resulted in no sign of tampering to the fence, or any movement in the forest area. Visual range impeded by treeline,” Illya reads aloud from the report. 

“Solving crimes from miles away,” Napoleon says grandly. “There should be a note on my files for this. Distance Investigator, or Outpost Detective. I should get free meals from the kitchens for weeks.”

“You already get that,” Illya says, “but I’ll make a proposition to Waverly when all this is done. What about, special skills: better when benched?”

“I take it all back,” Napoleon says at once, “It’s amazing here. We don’t have to work and we get free food. You should be jealous. Have fun with your paperwork.” 

Illya laughs— a full laugh, and thinks he hears Napoleon make a surprised sound in the background. It’s been a while since he laughed last, truly, so Illya doesn’t comment on it and instead says, “I don’t have to do paperwork anymore. I have the solution.” 

“Because of me,” Napoleon says.

Illya hums. “Technically, but does Lavender know that?” 

“You little—” 

“Goodbye, Cowboy,” Illya says with a smile. “I’ve got work to do.” 

He hangs up to a Napoleon laughing, and Illya had forgotten how this felt. It’s as if Napoleon took all stress with him, all numbness filled with warmth and light. Illya feels electrified. It’s almost enough to forget that he’ll have to go to the warehouse to deliver this breakthrough. It’s almost enough to forget that he’s grabbing his coat to go back to the place where he almost lost Napoleon. 

Illya never really forgot, but he truly remembers when he steps onto the courtyard and for a second sees Napoleon on his knees in the distance, pressing a bloody hand to his shirt. 

“What are you doing here, Kuryakin? Are you done with desk duty?” 

Illya blinks, and Napoleon is gone. Lavender takes off her sunglasses and looks at him strangely. “You okay?” 

“Yes,” Illya says. “I’ve finished going through the reports and debriefed with Agent Solo. Together, we came to this theory.” 

As he explains, Lavender’s eyebrows go higher with every sentence. Before he can finish, she’s already sent a team to scour the tree-line behind the fence: ‘inspect every inch of if you have to, we’re going to find out how they came in here’, and within the hour they’re standing on the edge of a dark, round, hole in the ground. It’s concrete edges go down farther than Illya can see without light, and only the first bar of an iron ladder is visible. 

“Be my guest,” Lavender says, motioning to the tunnel entrance. A minion gives him a flashlight. Illya takes a deep breath, clicks it on, and starts to climb down. 

———

Illya is first hit with the cold, the air is so frigid he can see his breath before him. When he drops down from the ladder, the concrete walls and floors of the tunnel echo around him. A splash of water goes over his boot as he walks through puddles, and he sees it dripping through the cracks as he moves deeper into the tunnel to make space for others. He has to bend his knees not to hit his head, and he inspects the sides for any sign of use. 

The cracks continue deeper in, and Illya starts to find pieces of wall that are only held together by large iron nails. “Watch out,” Illya says, his voice suddenly loud in the space. “This is old. I don’t think it’s safe. It could collapse.” 

“That just means we’re going to be careful and quick,” Lavender says behind him. “Tell us where not to walk if need be.” 

“Does anyone have an idea what this is?” A stranger’s voice sounds deeper back. It takes a moment for Illya place him as the minion who’d found the entrance. 

“I recognize the build,” Lavender replies, “This must have been a bomb shelter. They could have built the warehouse on top of it. The damage could be from the war.” 

Illya swallows and continues to walk, letting them talk as they follow his steps. The conversation makes the tunnel feel less like a trap. The flashlights from the other’s light his path enough that he can see a few meters before him, and he uses his own light to watch the floor below. 

“Stop,” Illya says, and freezes in his step. The agents behind him still at once. 

“What is it, Kuryakin?” Lavender shuffles a little closer and looks over his shoulder. 

Illya points at the ground, were a few small things lie in the dust. A piece of fabric hangs off an protruding nail in the wall, like someone had torn their jacket as they walked passed. 

Lavender gives him an evidence bag and Illya carefully collects the items. A few coins, a piece of paper, and a hard card that might be some kind of ID, but Illya doesn’t want to stand here and inspect when this tunnel can collapse on them any second. He gives the bag back to Lavender and begins walking again. 

A few moments later they reach the end of the tunnel. A small door, though it looks more like a safe than anything else, is closed and locked before them. Lavender and Illya try to push it open together, but they get nowhere. Illya tries to wrack his brain for some kind of way to break it open— he recognizes the make of it. It’s something Napoleon must have cracked before him a dozen of times. Nothing luxe or intricate about it, just functional. Someone rushes carefully back to get a crowbar and screwdriver, but by the time they’re back Illya’s found what he was looking for. With the help of Lavender’s service knife, he can wedge out the screws around the lock, giving him enough wiggle room to yank the connecting bars out. The door falls open. 

Lavender huffs behind him. “I didn’t know you could do that.” 

Illya grabs his flashlight from the floor and takes his gun in the other hand. “I’m learning from someone who could have done this in ten seconds. It took me five minutes.” He steps through the entrance without another word. 

It’s not that Illya expects someone to be here, but the whole place makes the hairs stand up on his neck, so he checks every corner of the bunker carefully until he’s sure the place is clear. Lavender and the rest follow his lead and he hears the click click click of guns behind him. 

“It’s clear,” Lavender confirms, and everyone relaxes their posture a bit. The bunker has high enough ceilings to be able to stand, and Illya hears some people groan in relief after being crouched for so long. He doesn’t feel the need to. 

“I think I found the light switch,” someone says on the other side. “Do we want to risk it?” 

Lavender’s face twitches in thought. The chance that it’s a trap is very small, and light would minimise the time they’d have to be here. Even with all the flashlights, the place is so dark that Illya can’t see anything outside of the thin light streams. 

“Be ready to get out of here,” Lavenders orders, “Turn it on.” 

There is a long second where everyone waits intently on any sign of danger, but then lights flicker on and there is a collective sigh of relief. 

“Good,” Lavender says, and now that Illya sees more than her silhouette, he sees that she’s covered in streaks of dirt and dust. Her grim expression makes him wonder what he looks like to others right now. He doesn’t quite know how he feels. 

“I want to be out of here in five minutes,” Lavender says. “Anything you find, in an evidence bag. Try to find out what’s here and what should be here, and any doors or passages to the main warehouse.” 

At her words everyone moves, and without needing to discuss the bunker gets divided in parts. Illya takes the side beside the door, and searches through the large cupboard where he only finds canned food and other provisions. It seems like most of it has been eaten by rats and other vermin, the only thing besides food Illya finds are rat bones and more cracks in the wall.

“I found a staircase going up toward the warehouse,” an agent says when Illya’s trying to wipe his hands clean from rotten rat flesh. Illya turns towards them in a flash.

“I’ll tell the agents up top, I want to reinforce this before we try to open any more doors or go deeper into this,” Lavender says, halting Illya’s plan to rush up the stairs and— He doesn’t even really know what his plan is besides that.

The only thing he can think of is that Delilah probably planned to get away through here, taking them with her for her own use. If Illya had given up instead, if Illya hadn’t been so sure he could take her before she hurt Napoleon, they could have ended up being blindfolded and pushed through the tunnels Illya had just come through, at the Ghost’s mercy. For the first time in his life, Illya is glad for the training his father forced him into. Without that relentless practice and punishment, without the decades of missions and successes, Illya would never have had the confidence to take that shot. It was worth it, Illya thinks for one sick moment. It was all worth it, because it gave him the ability to save Napoleon. To save all of them. 

“Everyone done?” Lavender asks, moments later, cutting through Illya’s inner turmoil. There are general sounds of agreement. “Okay, Kuryakin, go in front. We follow. Make sure you keep everything you’ve found dry. We’re going to the office directly, organize and record our findings. I want theories and leads before nightfall.” 

At Lavenders orders Illya leads the group back through the tunnel. He climbs the ladder in a few paces but stands beside it in case anyone needs a hand. Once everyone has climbed through one by one, Illya takes a moment to look around the area with a new perspective. 

Now that he isn’t distracted by some great unknown, he can appreciate the extremely strategic position the entrance had been built on. The small iron circle fits precisely between two large roots of a great tree that blocks anyone from view behind the fence. Two other trees flank the first, creating a natural circle of protection around the entrance. Even in daylight, someone could have easily hidden behind the trees and entered without anyone on the property noticing. 

Lavender touches his shoulder as Illya comes to the realisation that they never would have found this without Napoleon’s input. Illya turns around to face her, and sees her looking the same way he’d been. Based on her thoughtful expression, Illya guesses she’s coming a similar conclusion. 

“Keep calling Solo,” she says to him after a thoughtful moment. “He’s got ideas. We need those.” 

“Yes, Lieutenant,” Illya says, and he does everything to keep his face blank and serious. He’s mostly sure he fails. “I will.”

She huffs, smiling, and claps him on the shoulder. “Let’s go.” She moves away and motions to the other agents. Illya follows the group, looking out through the forest, the gentle summer evening breeze soft against his skin, and something inside of him clicks into place. He breathes, calmer than he remembers being in a long time, and hurries his pace to catch up. 

He’s got a call to make. 

———

“I was right, wasn’t I?” Napoleon asks, unnecessarily. Illya knows he just wants to get it said out loud. 

“Yes, Cowboy, you were,” Illya says, pretending to sound longsuffering. He allows himself a smile because Napoleon isn’t here to see it anyway. 

“On what count are we now, Peril, 6? Oh— no, at least 7, I was the one that pointed you to Poland.” 

“You were,” Illya agrees, “and we’ve been stuck here for almost a week because of your hunch.” 

“But you did find the safe house, did you not?” Napoleon drawls. “And who was the one who decrypted the last pages of those Xhosa documents and matched them with the ID you found back in the tunnels?” 

Illya huffs, shakes his head. 

“Three guesses, Peril,” Napoleon says. “I believe in you.” 

“You’ve had enough praise for today,” Illya says, “I should hang up and let you get back to your work.” 

“I disagree with that idea on multiple levels,” Napoleon declares, and then sighs, “but I suppose it’s getting late. How was dinner on your end? Or have you forgotten again?”

“I’ve been busy,” Illya says, “because of you, so don’t—” Illya yawns in the middle of his sentence, making Napoleon laugh through the phone. “Don’t,” Illya finishes warningly.

“I’m not saying anything,” Napoleon says, with a tone that says about everything. Illya rolls his eyes. “It’s just that I wanted to paint a bit more today, so if you really want to cut this meeting short I’m not protesting.” 

“You were protesting a second ago,” Illya argues. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You must really be exhausted to start hearing things that haven’t happened.” Napoleon tsks in a way that reminds Illya vividly of Sasha, and he presses a hand against his mouth to keep from laughing. 

Instead, he ends up yawing again, and rubs at his eyes. The clock ticks close to midnight and with the passing seconds, Illya’s body loses the fight with time.

“Stop for today, Peril,” Napoleon says, and his voice is gentle suddenly. “Come on, you’ve harped at my health habits for two weeks, it’s about time I return the favor.” 

“You were just out of surgery,” Illya says, trying to distract the conversation from how caring Napoleon sounds. “You needed to recover.” 

“Yes, and at this rate you’re gonna walk into your own gun and end up needing surgery too,” Napoleon says deadpan. “Food, sleep, break, and in that order. Don’t make me call Lavender.” 

Illya sighs, relenting, “You drive a hard bargain, Cowboy.” 

“Don’t I always,” Napoleon replies, and Illya feels the burn from his charming smile from here. He doesn’t have to see it to know that it’s there. He feels a blush come up and flush his cheeks and throat.

“Usually,” Illya says. He stretches out, yawning again, and the chuckle Napoleon lets out is another rush through his body, another jump in his heart. His lips twitch with it, almost joining in, but it’s easy to keep it to himself when the rest of him is allowed to lean into it, treasure the sound for all it’s worth. 

“Goodnight, Peril,” Napoleon says, warm and lovely. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” 

With his eyes closed, it almost feels like Napoleon is sitting next to him, breath against his ear. 

“I’ll call you,” Illya murmurs, exhaustion taking the strength out of his tone. 

Napoleon smiles, Illya knows he does. He doesn’t need to see it to know that it’s there. His mind's eye paints it perfectly. 

“I know you will,” Napoleon says, and maybe it’s supposed to be an order, a joking threat softened with a laugh, but to Illya it feels like a promise. A vow he’s glad to make. 

After Napoleon hangs up, Illya breathes for a second. He places a hand over his face and takes a moment to count. This too, has become a familiar dance. His heartbeat recedes as the colour slowly drains from his surroundings, now that Napoleon’s voice is merely an echo in his ears. 

Illya pushes himself from the office chair. He shrugs his jacket on and checks his pockets for his keys. When he’s certain he has everything, he goes downstairs to the garage and revs up his bike. 

After a moment of hesitation, he decides to take the long way to his hotel room. He’d been offered a place to sleep in the office space, but Illya had known he needed some time away from the temptation of the phone, and the obsession of work. As he rushes past lanterns and the occasional lonely car, his thoughts find Napoleon again. With the cool air on his face, their conversation filters through him, leaving a tingling sensation all over his body that the cold can’t touch. Though he wishes he could go home, he selfishly loves the mission for giving him the opportunity to talk to Napoleon every day without danger. 

The distance gives Illya a safety he hadn’t known he needed. He’d never known how much it weighed on him to keep things in, to push thoughts, wants, and wishes from his mind— just in case. He hadn’t known how much he’s missed talking to Napoleon without that thread of stress pulling the earnesty in his words back into his throat. 

The ease Illya feels now, as they talk and joke and tease, is something he never wants to lose again. He can smile at the thought of it, light with something he finally dares to name. 

Illya reaches his hotel and rushes up the staircase, before staggering into his room. As the door closes behind him, he allows himself to collapse into the sofa for a little while. He would have fallen asleep there, if it wasn’t for Napoleon’s directions to take care of himself. He eats mindlessly though a bowl of soup, and is barely able to take off his jeans before falling onto the bed. 

The ache comes roaring, as it always does at night. The memory of talking to Napoleon, but not being able to touch him. The cold empty mattresses, and the sudden need for someone to be there, holding him, kissing him to sleep. Illya smiles at the tightness of his chest, buries into the blankets and lets himself feel it. 

Because this; the longing, the pain, the _want_ is something he never thought he could feel. For all that Illya wants more, wants to demand the right to have Napoleon in the ways his dreams claim him to be, he knows that this stinging in his chest is more than he ever thought possible. When Napoleon talks to him it hurts, in a bittersweet and glorious way. It reminds Illya of watching the ballerinas as a kid, that deeply awed jealousy, mixed with hope and knowing regret. Because even as a little kid, even with the naive ambition childhood brings, he’d known he’d never be that beautiful, that precious. That just isn’t the way he is built. 

With Napoleon, it’s the same way, and as the phonecalls grow longer, and Illya has to move farther and farther away to chase the thief into Lithuania and then back to France, Illya learns to treasure this feeling, and accept it as his own. 

He has known for a long time that he loves Napoleon, but now when he allows himself to feel it in the safety of far away lands, he learns that it’s enough. He doesn’t need more than this. He doesn’t need more than the confirmation that he can love, because this pain is as human as he’s ever felt. Pain caused by a far away smile, caused by a memory of Napoleon kissing a mark, pain caused by the knowledge he won’t ever touch Napoleon in that way. There is so much beauty in that pain, and Illya realises he’ll be okay, living with this his entire life. He hopes it will help him remember that he is more than the KGB wanted him to be, and that he’ll never impose himself on Napoleon. 

Because just like that little boy, he knows, deep down, that he isn’t made for that, he wouldn’t be able to offer Napoleon anywhere what Illya knows he deserves. And that, in the end, is what matters most of all. 

So Illya is content with the phonecalls. Content with the knowledge Napoleon will always have his heart. He’ll be okay, even if he isn’t, sometimes. 

\---

In the end, it’s Napoleon who solves it. 

Illya isn’t surprised. 

He is surprised when he’s calling to tell Napoleon they caught the thief in the airport he’d said he would be, and no one picks up. 

It’s strange, that he had almost forgot how it felt to have his mind be torn through with worry in only a few short weeks. Illya fights the numbness with skin and teeth. He needs to be here for this. He calls again, and again, and then switches to Gaby, Waverly, anyone he can think of until he realises that no one will answer. Dread blurs his vision. He puts the phone down, and walks carefully back to the police conference room, where Lavender and Moss have set up their paperwork to transfer the thief without issue. 

“Lavender,” Illya says, not caring he’s interrupting something. He doesn’t even hear what they’re saying anymore. “HQ is not responding.” 

The thief, a thin man with short brown hair and a black eye marring his face, smiles at Illya’s words. 

Illya sees red. 

He doesn’t remember, later, how the thief’s black eye was joined by another. He only remembers something snapping underneath his fingertips. He doesn’t know what he yelled loud enough to make his throat ache afterward, he only knows that the thief had laughed and laughed until Illya had knocked him unconscious for blessed silence. 

“Kuryakin.” Illya hears, far away. “Stand down.” 

“What did they do,” Illya growls, as the thief’s eyes roll back into his head. He shakes the limp body until two strong hands grip his arm. Illya twist around to face them. 

Moss appears next to him, her face tense as her eyes flash to his. “Let go, Kuryakin. You’re killing the only lead we have.” 

Illya drags his eyes away from her and back to the thief, and only then sees past the haze of his rage. His fingers dig into the filth’s throat and he’s slowly turning red, then blue. Cold rushes through Illya as he sees the life leaving the man’s body and he lets go with a start. 

Lavender pushes him out of the way at once and begins to resuscitate the thief, while a police officer, with quick hands but a pale face, snaps handcuffs around Illya’s wrist. Illya could move, throw the officer to the wall and finish what he started. But instead he gives the officer his other arm, and follows obediently when they pull him towards a holding cell. He tries to seem as small as possible, but the officers aren’t fooled as they look at him with disgust. They throw him in the corner of the cell and slam the bars behind him. One of them kicks the door and spits something, eyes dark with horror like he’s seeing a monster instead of a man. Illya doesn’t think they’re far off. 

Napoleon is in danger, he must be, and he couldn’t control himself. He doesn’t know if the thief survived, and even then, it is unlikely that they’ll get anything out of him after that assault. He can only wait, and hope that Moss and Lavender will find a way to solve the mess he’s made. He won’t forgive himself regardless. Even after all this time, he hasn’t become better than he was. If anything, he’s gotten worse. 

When his attempt to protect those he loves only puts them in more peril, it’s time to think about never coming back. Maybe they’ll be better off if he’s in Russia. Illya presses his forehead against the scratchy cement walls, and waits. Once the numbness comes again, he doesn’t fight it. Apparently, he needs it to be in control of the beast. 

Moss gets him out, not ten minutes later. Illya tries to listen to what she’s telling him, but the words glide off like a blizzard off a cliff. He nods along, follows when motioned to, and it seems like Moss convinced them Illya wasn’t going to go on a killing spree again because his cuffs are unlocked and he’s allowed back into the conference room. The thief is nowhere to be seen. 

As time passes, slow sentences start to trickle in. Illya hears Lavender talking to someone on the phone, and for a second his senses comes back as Lavender addresses Waverly by name. The room seems to breathe in relief, and Illya carefully pulls himself back again. They are making progress without him, and he shouldn’t ruin it this time. He only waits, listens, until orders come.

Illya doesn’t think about what the thief’s laughter could have meant. He pushes his numbness in the space the thought appears and feels it dissipate with a sigh. 

They’re ordered to come home. Lavender says it with a tense twist to her lips. “We’ll get more information soon,” Lavender adds, once they’re in the car driving to the airport. “All we know is that there was a shut down of the system, and Waverly only could reach us with his emergency system. They’re checking HQ now, doing roll call. He didn’t hear any sound of combat.” 

“Where was Waverly when it happened?” Moss asks. A file is open on her lap, and she doesn’t take her eyes off the rapports as the car swerves into a turn. “HQ?”

“Yes,” Lavender confirms. Her jaw snaps shut. “We have no word from the Hotel yet.” 

Somewhere deep inside him an old ache sharpens into stinging pain. Like a bullet wound opening up again. Lavender drags a hand over her face. 

Illya looks away from her worry, the pulse of emotion almost drawing his own to the surface. He watches the trees go by, a cow grazes calmly in a field, and Illya almost feels like they’re displaced. As if their moving cabin of stress doesn’t fit within the scenery. Beside him, Moss sighs. 

When they arrive, the small airplane is already running it’s engines. The two pilots, one woman with long black hair in a bun, and an older man in a flashy uniform, come up onto the tarmac and greet them with a quick handshake. Moss takes over point, and Illya climbs the small staircase placed before the cabin door. 

Lavender’s footsteps suddenly halt behind him and Illya turns around at once, to see her grabbing something out of her pocket and pressing it to her ear. 

“We’re on our way,” she says into the phone. “Four hours at the most. Any more news?” 

Illya takes the steps down again, each step heavier than the last. 

Lavender’s face flashes with— with _something,_ before disappearing in the form of a serious nod. As Illya nears and joins her, he can see that her expression has changed, ever so slightly; her edge of worry replaced by the edge of a smile.

She’s shaking her head now, and the almost laugh she lets out is light with relief. “Of course they did.” As she says it, her eyes catch Illya standing close, and now her smile comes true and as she nods in confirmation to whatever Illya is supposed to infer from this. 

But Illya has nothing. For all that his rational mind shouts for hope, there is a much larger part of him that is suspicious of this apparent relief. He needs to hear the words. He can’t—

“Just so I understand,” Lavender says, eyes still on Illya, “Agent Solo noticed suspicious behavior of a technician and went to investigate. When he was revealed to be the photographer, Gaby incapacitated him and locked him up. But the shut down had already been activated, which explains the radio silence?” 

Illya blinks. Illya breathes. 

Lavender winks at him and chuckles into the phone. “No— No, you were very clear. I wanted to make sure I got it right.” 

Illya doesn’t know how to say thank you. How to thank her for everything she’s done during this mission and beyond. He hopes she can see it on his face. 

Lavender squeezes his arm as she walks past him, listening to the phone carefully. “Yes, take off is in about a minute. We’re boarding now. Our mark is coming with the rest of the unit on a later flight.” 

She waves her hand for him to follow, and Illya goes. They’re going home. Nothing else matters. 

Illya tries not to think during the flight. He falls asleep before the fasten belt light blinks back to green. 

———

They’re waiting for him in the Hotel, Lavender tells him as they start to land. Illya blinks barely into the sudden light. He must have responded, because she moves away to talk to the pilot standing in the cabin doorway. 

Illya drags himself out of the seat and takes his baggage out of the overhead compartment. An agent Illya vaguely recognized leads him to a car where Moss has already found her place. She raises an eyebrow as Illya enters, and Illya gets the sudden sense to look into the car’s window. His reflection is a mess— his hair is standing all directions, his eyes are bloodshot and his face is pale. There is something to his expression that Illya can’t explain, but is an exact representation of the persisting chill inside of his chest. He doesn’t know how he’s feeling, and for once his body shows it. 

“Kuryakin,” Moss says, her calm voice loud in their small space. “What is the matter?” 

And her insidiously normal question is almost enough to break everything open, but he swallows it. He doesn’t know what he will do once he can feel what’s welling up inside him, but he knows he wants to confront that far away from people. 

Instead, Illya gathers all the strength he has left and forces it out as a huff. He shakes his head, as if he thinks the question is ridiculous, angles his head just enough away so she can’t look into his eyes and says, “I was not there when my team needed me. It will take a while— to accept that.” 

Illya falls silent, waits and prays that it was enough. Napoleon taught him well to tell as little of the truth as possible to keep people from asking more, but just enough to make it sound like that’s all there is. Don’t give them a reason to dig deeper. 

“You did what you were ordered to do,” Moss says finally. “Don’t take responsibility for something that is out of your hands.” 

Illya represses a dark laugh at the last second, ending up coughing in his hand. Those who served under Oleg, the ones that had seen the cracks of Illya’s walls, had always said something like that after a particular brutal kill. It never helped. 

But Illya nods, as if he agrees, and continues to stare out of the window until they arrive. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The people that decided to suffer through another cliff hanger instead of waiting until its 100% done, you are special angels in heaven who also shouldn't torture themselves so much. If you're one of them and reading this, Thank You. If you waited, also thank you and I relate. I don't know how yall survive my wip mess, but I sure can't deal. 
> 
> Last chapter coming soon! Hope you liked this one though :D 
> 
> (also I'm sorry for any missed typo's and other structural mistakes. Brookebond was so awesome to beta this on short notice, and all remaining mistakes are mine. I'm just busy as fuck, so I hadn't had much time to edit everything a few times. Sorry!"
> 
> And thank you ScribeofArda for the amazing last minute help to get me back on track with this fic!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, it has Finished. 
> 
> Enjoy y'all <3

Once he sees the red brick and old window frames of the Hotel before him, Illya slows his pace. His body takes him away from the main entrance. Too many people rush in and out, a skittish air remains and Illya remembers that it hasn’t been that long since the shutdown— it feels like weeks since Napoleon didn’t pick up. Days since the cold holding cell.

Instead he walks towards the backdoor, entering the code without looking and sneaking into the Hotel without anyone noticing. The halls are empty, but he can hear noise coming from the dinner hall. Everything is so familiar, but the warmth of home doesn’t touch Illya through the exhaustion still pulsing through him. It takes him all the focus he has to keep walking, not slide against the wall and just breathe. He reaches the end of the hall leading into the hall, and in the mass of people he sees Napoleon and Gaby at once. They’re sitting together at a central table, the first line of sight for people entering via the main door. They don’t see him, turned away from Illya just enough to allow him to stay anonymous and silent, watching them for a moment. They’re laughing, Illya hears, the sound of Napoleon’s delight reaches his ears through all the noise and something is stuck in his throat. Napoleon turns to Gaby, twisting enough for Illya to see his smile. He’s sitting with his legs crossed and Illya realises he couldn’t do that when he was here. He must feel better, the wound must have healed more.

The scene, Napoleon alive and well and _laughing_ , destroys all the strength Illya had left and he turns on his heel, fleeing. He can’t implode where Napoleon can see. He can’t demand his presence like that. They just caught a criminal without his help. He should handle this alone too.

———

Illya reaches his room just in time to slide against the wall and launch into a rapid series of breaths. Almost as if the numbness had merely been the ocean receding before a wave, a tsunami of emotions hit Illya at once, leaving him gasping and trying not to drown.

The fear of never coming home, never seeing Napoleon again, never working with Gaby again, never having a team to make him better. The unimaginable terror of Napoleon dying with Illya too far to save him, imagining him taking his last breath while looking through the scope of the man responsible. And then again, a thief laughing darkly while the silence of the phone lines make Illya see the dead before him, their eyes white and judging. _You should have been better,_ they say _, you should have saved us._

All the memories take Illya hostage, their power greater now his core has been destroyed. Illya counts around them, desperately, but he loses hold of time as he suddenly feels the anger, all the rage he’d tried to hide from in order to complete his mission. The hatred he feels for a woman long dead who dared to put Napoleon on his knees with a gun to his head. Illya doesn’t know how to live through this assault. He’s almost begging to whatever power exists for the numbness to return and never leave again, but he is not saved this time. Illya pushes his forehead against his knees and tries to survive.

Illya breathes. Too fast at first, choking with it, but after biting through for long enough, he finds a way to count again, taming his breathing back to a steady sway. The blur before his eyes begins to fade, and the blood in his ears stop pulsing just when the phone in the hallway rings.

Illya stands without thinking, and picks up the phone before he can think about the possibility that hearing Napoleon now could bring him back to where he started. He doesn’t hang up.

But it isn’t Napoleon, instead a young woman introduces herself as an UNCLE assistant and explains in a fast pace the reason for the call.

“We found this in your records because we’re double checking everything after the shutdown, and it must have been deleted during the power out. Would you like to hear the recovered file?”

Illya realises belatedly that she’s expecting an answer. He grunts into the phone, and the secretary takes it as a yes.

“Okay, here it comes, have a nice day!” she says brightly. There is a clicking sound and a pause until—

“Hey, Peril,” Napoleon says. His voice is scratchy, soft like he just woke up. “I couldn’t sleep,” he says, and sighs, “The usual. You know how it is. You’re sleeping now, probably, hopefully. Or maybe you didn’t pick up because you’re already in the airport preparing a trap of some kind, that would be typical.”

Illya slides to the ground, telephone cord taut as he lays his head against the wall and listens breathlessly to Napoleon’s recording. It feels familiar, their phone calls mirrored in such a way that it automatically calms Illya down. He closes his eyes and listens to the wash of another far away voice, although now in time rather than in space.

“I hoped you wouldn’t— pick up, I mean,” Napoleon continues. “It would give me an excuse to do this now. And I need an excuse, because I don’t know if I’m strong enough to say what needs to be said, if I’m looking into your eyes. I’ve never been as strong as you, Peril. You make me jealous sometimes.

“I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, but never seriously. I never actually expected to—” Napoleon trails off, laughing softly to himself. “You see? This is why I can’t just talk to you. You make me lose my words, Peril. My greatest weapon and only protection, and you just strip me down to my barest parts and leave me helpless. But I can’t allow myself to stay that way, because you do deserve to know, and we do deserve a chance. If there is any possibility for us, we deserve a chance, and I know that you won’t believe that if you feel the same way. I know that about you, at least.”

It’s only then when Illya’s heartbeat begins to start up again. Napoleon’s barely making any sense, though a part of him tries to explode with a hope rising, because this— this sounds like a confession.

“I didn’t believe I deserved anything too, at first, but Gaby helped me see things differently. So I have to risk it, and hope it doesn’t break too much.” Napoleon sighs deeply and pushes out a breath.

“Before I incriminate myself further, I want you to know that you have the right to make this disappear. You don’t even have to say anything. If this is not what you want, I hope you forgive me, and I hope you can forget this message. I want to maintain the relationship we already have, Peril, nothing means more to me than that. So if it’s going to be only that for as long as we know each other, I will be grateful. I will forget this too. You know I’m good at that. It would be answer enough to know that I’m alone in this, and that will give me closure. I thought not knowing the answer would make it go away, but now I know I need to break it, in order to live on. And I hope we can stay partners. I hope you won’t hate me. Or at least, I hope you will learn to not hate me, after you’ve given me time to show that nothing will change if you don’t want it to.

“Okay, with that out of the way,” Napoleon says, and clears his throat. “This will not be as dashing as I would love it to be because I already know my charm is useless on you, frustratingly so, and besides I don’t feel that charming right now. So instead, I’ll just be honest.

“You are the most important person in my life so far,” Napoleon says, quick and though he stumbles over the last word, he sounds steady with certainty.

Illya loses all the breath in his lungs and he feels like he’s falling, Napoleon’s voice following him down, down, down.

“You are the person I trust the most with my safety, and your presence has been invaluable to me. Gaby, of course, comes in a close second, don’t think I’ve forgotten about her, but where she brings me an deep friendship I didn’t know I needed, you broke something inside me I hadn’t known needed to be broken.

“I’ve lived in darkness so long, Peril. I’ve had the man I loved die in my arms, and when another dared to come close to me he died too. Ever since I’ve been shutting down each and every opportunity for connection, because I knew it would only lead to death. I thought I was protecting people from myself. I didn’t know how much I had isolated myself, how cold my heart was, until I met you. You sparked something inside me I had worked so hard to destroy, and where I used to be able to push it back to nothing again, you were too strong for me, and in the end I fell, helpless.”

Illya can see it, Napoleon bare and destroyed by Illya’s hands. He can feel Napoleon’s voice whisper past him as he continues to fall. His eyes, wide open, still see the empty lounge around him, but inside he’s somewhere else, somewhere he doesn’t need to breath, only to listen.

“And the thing is,” Napoleon says after a pause, drawing Illya back to him again. “The thing is you don’t know how depleted you are of something so vital if you’re used to living without it for decades. I had accepted being alone for the rest of my life as something set in stone, and after a long while my heart stopped trying. I felt nothing. I made no friends, barely ever repeated working with someone just in case.

“In Berlin, a spark came again, and I let myself feel it because I thought it was safe. I thought you would kill me, so it wouldn’t matter. This time I wouldn’t lose someone because I would be dead, and the dead can’t have their hearts broken. I thought I was clever for it, and then you didn’t kill me. You were ordered to, and you choose not to, and I think I’ve been lost since then. But I didn’t know that yet, I didn’t know how screwed I was. I was just relieved that you didn’t have to add another name to your list. I know that you hate that more than anything.”

There is a burst of light showering Illya in his endless fall, his mind reaches out to touch it and he feels the smile in Napoleon’s voice filter over him like a warm shower on a icy day. It’s filled with gratitude a part of Illya thinks he should reject, but instead he leans into it, listening, listening.

“So I lived on, tried to erase it like I had done so many times before, but I couldn’t. It was stuck, wedged between my ribs and growing stronger, and it changed me. You changed me. The way I’ve been working and living suddenly paled to what I felt for you. It pushed me further into the open, pushed me to realise how long I’ve been in that strangle-hold of isolation, and it was you that gave me the permission to _live_. If it weren’t for you, I would never have become closer to Gaby, I would never have trusted Waverly and eventually come to regard him as something of a friend. I’d never learn the names of the teams around us, save maybe for some kind of manipulative scheme to reach the top. You broke me open, and taught me to be genuine again, and I can never thank you for that. You turned a selfish and scared thief into someone who knew the value of the people around him, who became enough to love them even though they could die at any moment.”

Napoleon’s voice echoes into the abyss of Illya’s mind. Loud and powerful, it lifts Illya up and now he’s flying, his fall ended by Napoleon’s story. Illya wants to believe in it more than anything, but as he feels the wings flaring open behind him, he knows this must be a fairytale.

“But still, I was too scared to tell you what you mean to me. Maybe I needed to almost die to get that far. Or maybe I just needed a talk with a good friend. I don’t know. But I guess, this all leads to this.”

And at once, the sad, broken hesitance in Napoleon’s voice breaks the spell. Illya’s vision disappears with a flash and he feels the cold ground beneath him again. He breathes, harshly in and out after having forgotten for so long. But despite his flight being over, the phone is still going, Napoleon still talking, and maybe— just maybe—

“Peril, I want you,” Napoleon says. “ I just, want you. I regard you as more than a partner, more than a friend, and although I cannot say the words without knowing for certain they won’t end in a punch to my face, but— I think you should be able to understand right? I think this should be enough for now?”

Where Napoleon first sounded determined, in a few sentences he sounds filled with doubt. Illya can only hear it because he’s so focused. Everything starts shaking around him as he’s frozen with the phone to his ear, and somehow he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Napoleon to take his golden words back into his mouth with a mean laugh, or for this nightmarishly sweet dream to end. This can’t be real, Illya thinks desperately, this is too good to be real. Because it is enough, Napoleon has said exactly enough for Illya to _know._ And—

Oh God.

He can’t.

He can’t love Illya.

No one can.

Napoleon’s recording continues, oblivious to Illya’s crumbling mind.

“Or maybe I do need to say it,” he says, as if speaking to himself. “Maybe you won’t believe me— but I can’t do that like this. I can’t—”

There is a shuddering breath and a long silence that’s only interrupted by the breathing of two men separated in time. Illya’s heart beat increases, and he’s never been so scared and desperate for more words to come.

“Oh fuck this,” Napoleon says suddenly. “I shouldn’t do this. God. This is just being a goddamn coward, isn’t it? And for what gain? No, I shouldn’t— There should be a way to delete—”

The phone clicks off, leaving Illya in a silence sucked out of reality. Illya trembles, tries to grasp around for something that makes sense in the face of—

Napoleon deleted the voicemail. He wasn’t supposed to hear this. But he knows now. He _knows_. And Illya feels himself starting to believe in the impossible.

Napoleon loves him. Napoleon wants him. Napoleon—

But he can’t. Illya can’t do that to him. He’s wrong. It isn’t Illya that helped Napoleon become better than he was, he did that by himself. Illya knows he only takes people down with him. Even his past growth have been disproven by the actions of the day. He can’t let Napoleon do this to himself. He can’t fall in love with a monster.

A part of him screams, screeching in protest and trying to claw its way out of his chest. _Just take him_ , it says, _just have him. He will let you. He loves you. You can be his. He wants it. He wants you._

But Illya pushes it away, clenching his jaw. Flashes of the thief struggling between his hands fill his mind and Illya uses it to scare himself into compliance. He imagines killing someone who lays their hands on Napoleon, with Napoleon standing beside him to watch. He imagines the fight after, the disgust in Napoleon’s eyes as he finally sees the mistake he’s made. He sees his father, using his mother to his eternal rage, and Illya heaves when his mind provides an image of Napoleon hunched in the corner, black and blue by Illya’s hand.

Napoleon must have taken the distance between them and painted a version of Illya who has less names on his list, less rage to fight. Illya wants to be that man, but he cannot guarantee it, he cannot believe he will ever be, and Napoleon deserves more, so much more.

Illya flees. He takes his bag, still packed, and rushes out of their shared rooms. He takes a quiet path through the Hotel, using closets and toilets to make his way unseen. When he’s finally outside, he doesn’t stop and pause. He takes off in a direction, a hurried pace to his step that only barely doesn’t look like a criminal on the run. Automatically, his feet lead him to the park he used to frequent with Napoleon, and when he realises where he is he finds he doesn’t have the energy to leave. He doesn’t know where to go. He doesn’t want to go. He finds a bench and sits down, staring out into the dimming evening light with his hands on his knees until the stars twinkle above him.

He’ll need to talk to Napoleon. Explain to him why this isn’t possible. Help him realise that this isn’t what he needs. But Illya knows that if he were to speak now, he would end up begging Napoleon to love him, to truly love him, despite the horrors he has caused. He needs time to build up a well of strength that Napoleon apparently believes he has. Maybe the voicemail will help. Maybe Napoleon will be so angry he listened to something that was not meant to be listened to, that it will break the delusion and allow him to see what Illya truly is.

Illya tries to feel relief at that, but in the dead of night, he only feels pain.

He slinks back to the Hotel a few hours later, tracing his steps until he opens the door to their lounge. Gaby and Napoleon are draped over the sofa closest to Illya’s door, sleeping. Gaby has her head on her arms, buried into the cushions almost in a sitting position. Napoleon on the other hand is sprawled out luxuriously, his mouth slack and snoring a little, body turned towards Illya.

Illya slows down his steps, trying to avoid creaking floorboards as he passes them with his heart in his throat. Nerves are joined with fondness, because even through the circumstances, he cannot help but feel loved by their apparent determination to wait him out.

Just when he feels a shadow of a smile tugging at his face, Gaby blinks her eyes open.

Illya freezes, his back to the door, and as Gaby goes from mid-yawn to a frown, he knows he’s been caught. He places a finger to his lips, motioning his head to Napoleon, obliviously passed out. Gaby responds eloquently with a raised eyebrow.

“Tomorrow,” Illya mouths to her, “Tomorrow, I promise.”

Gaby scans him up and down, narrowed eyes filled with worry, and then lets out a sigh that sounds defeated enough to make his chest hurt. Illya walks to her, very carefully while watching Napoleon in his periphery. She regards him as he goes, still and empty-faced as her eyelids droop, giving Illya a sense of how tired she is.

He leans in and gives her a firm hug she melts into without hesitation. Illya breathes easy for the first time today. “Tomorrow I’ll make it all right,” Illya promises softly.

“Okay,” Gaby says. “I’m glad you’re home with us.”

Illya squeezes her tighter and nods into her shoulder. “Me too.”

Illya pulls away after a second, and then slips into his room. He undresses in quick motions, changes into the only clean things he has left— a t-shirt a size too small and an old pair of sweatpants. Then he topples into bed, and sleeps.

The peace only lasts for an hour or so, when a commotion behind his door wakes him up.

“Come on, Solo,” Gaby murmurs. “We’ll drag him to breakfast tomorrow. Sleeping like this is not good for your leg.”

“Fuck my leg,” Napoleon replies, scratchy and slow, the rhythm of his voice all rumbled by a tired mind. “Where is Peril?”

“Tomorrow,” Gaby says, and that must be enough for the sleepdrunk Napoleon, because moments later the door beside Illya’s room slams shut.

Illya tries to close his eyes again, but he can’t. That was the first time he’s heard Napoleon without miles between them. Illya stares at the ceiling in the torturous limbo of wakefulness and sleep. In his half-dreams, Napoleon stumbles into his room instead, sleeping peacefully in his bed with an arm around Illya’s chest. Illya feels warm suddenly, full of a jittery energy he cannot seem to fight in this dark. He gives up after a few hours, and climbs out of bed, out of the room, and out of the lounge, in search for something to distract him until morning comes.

There is a room in the gym Illya has only stepped in once before. Wooden floorboards, still shimmering as if new, tall windows and one wall covered with mirrors from floor to ceiling. There is an iron bar, cold to the touch, and Illya had flinched away and walked out of the room, old regret hot on his heels.

But the room haunts him, the possibility of it: a lonely chamber not in use but still there, for the one person who could make use of it. Illya suspects Waverly, and he doesn’t know if he should be grateful. He doesn’t know who told him, and the idea that it is in his file somewhere makes him feel cold. Those lives should not cross.

But then he finds himself padding barefooted down to the halls under the cover of night. The moonlight streams into the room and Illya circles the floor, searching, for a reason not to flee. He seeks an identity so strong, so far away, and he’d known he couldn’t— he never wanted to confront it, push it far away not to feel the pain. But here, with the sudden need to get away from the chaos of his own mind, Illya feels it streaming through his veins. It has always been a way to escape, losing the harshness of the day into the strain of his body.

Illya moves deeper into the room and it grows stronger with every step, falling into a rhythm as familiar as his bones, and the muscles in his body take it and fall into position. Something awakens, every breath closer and clearer, Illya hears it, the music taking over his mind. His body follows, consumed by what he knows how to do. He doesn’t have to think, he only has to let it go, he only has to feel it. Every muscle strains under the ache of his dance, growing with every pace, his feet, unused but determined, stumble into a pirouette that isn’t perfect but the satisfaction merges with the violins in his mind almost makes it so.

Illya continues, pushing every moment out of his skin, the memories echoing without the pain. There is no space for regret, when the tempto of his feet match with a melody no one else can hear. There is only breath, only relief, only grateful energy in the realisation that he hasn’t lost this, not fully. The way is back arches, like he’s been longing for so long. With every remembered step a shackle’s released from his limbs, he feels light he feels the sweat pearl over his forehead, exhaustion deserved instead of demanded. He knows he’ll be sore tomorrow, and pushes further, a laugh slipping out at the thought of created pain, instead of inflicted horrors. Illya twists into the final sequence, realises belatedly he’s dancing a partner’s piece, he feels their weight against him and the warmth of their waist beneath his hands. He draws away, launching into a jump meant to impress, a move meant to seduce, and a bow intending submission— his confession, his eternal love.

Illya gasps for breath for a long second, his heart racing in his throat. He slowly straightens, tips into final position, and looks at his mirror’s image, where his imagined partner is staring right back at him.

“Cowboy.”

The world tilts to a stop when the name touches his lips. The reality of Napoleon keeps when Illya turns around, away from the mirror, and he doesn’t disappear. Napoleon is standing, staring, and so very very real.

Illya sees Napoleon’s wide eyes and forgets the existence of wonder, instead reads fear. He takes the surprise and twists it into horror before his eyes. Because that is the way his father had looked at him when he showed a dance for the first time. Because that is how people have looked at him for decades, after the burning of dreams and until the end of Berlin. Fear is usual, normal, how it’s supposed to be, that Illya can’t see the way Napoleon looks at him as if he’s worth something, because that couldn’t be true.

The false shadow of his past makes his body freeze up, shards like icicles pierce through his lungs. But he knows he doesn’t show it. His body snaps into position, from the grace of a dancer to the stance of a soldier. His thoughts form knife-points in the back of his throat and his chest rises to meet them, to sling them free and into Napoleon’s chest. _Is this what you want?_ Illya wants to yell. _This broken man, this murderer, a beast pretending to create. How can you want this?_

But his breath is like rolling thunder, loud and uncontrollable. He cannot reach for words inside a storm.

Napoleon takes a tentative step forward, the movement reverberates through Illya’s spine and it shakes inside him. His body does not move. How must he look to Napoleon now; from a dancer to a statue, emptiness lying in wait. He cannot speak, he cannot think, he cannot do anything except watch as Napoleon nears, the distance between them breaking into pieces.

Napoleon’s lips move with sound, and though Illya cannot hear the words over the beating of his own heart, the voice feels golden, liquid warmth echoing through the room, and Illya can’t understand how Napoleon still fills him with light when the words could only be ice.

Rejection, disgust, anger. Illya wonders if it would make a difference at all. He has been falling too long, and even the most hurtful phrases Napoleon could say would still break him gently, a sweet kind of poison he could survive, because as much as it destroys him, it warms him too.

Napoleon takes another step forward, like a dance of hesitance and dread. Illya closes his eyes to what is coming.

He feels something a second later, soft and undeserved, touch his hand. Fingers curling around his, a gentle grip that pulls on Illya’s entire being, magnetised and desperate, safe for a tiny frison in the back of his mind.

The same blackened claws of doubt now sharpen in conviction. Napoleon is not like him. He never was and he never will be. This cannot be what he wants. He cannot want what Illya knows he has been, and what he could be again. He has proved that over the course of this mission, and still he failed to protect, still he left Napoleon alone to suffer.

This is not something he deserves, and that single thought is what Illya gives the strength to pull away.

“I am not made for this,” Illya says, even as Napoleon follows, doesn’t allow the distance to come back. “I am a terrible man,” Illya adds, honest like he should have been from the start.

And within his last act of selfishness Illya proves his statement by placing his hand on Napoleon’s jaw. So he can remember how it felt like to have him so close, so trusting, while knowing how easy it would be to break the bone underneath.

Napoleon leans into him, and the smile that touches his lips makes Illya almost pull away again. He wouldn’t be able to defend himself if Illya suddenly decided to snap his neck, and that makes bile rise up his throat — Napoleon thrashing, digging his fingers into Illya’s wrist, suddenly going still—

Illya flinches back, away, as far as possible, to protect Napoleon from himself. Too much blood has been spilled by his hands and he will not survive it, if the person he breaks, hurts, _touches_ is Napoleon.

And Napoleon—

Napoleon rolls his eyes, and huffs with a smile.

The complete causality in his demeanour reminds Illya starkly of that fateful afternoon in Italy. When Illya had been sent to kill and Napoleon had treated him with complete trust mere seconds later. Illya suppresses a deep sigh when he realises he’s been stupid to think that reminding Napoleon of his inherent danger would push him away. If anything, it’s done nothing but draw him in.

Napoleon leans in again, possessive of Illya’s personal space as he’s been since Illya met him, and somehow Illya can’t refuse it anymore. He allows Napoleon to frame his face to tilt his gaze away from the ground, he allows to feel the gentleness in his touch, and he takes the thoughts of fear and doubt and flips them around in the face of Napoleon’s sure smile. Napoleon could have killed him a long time ago, and been right for it. He didn’t. Illya owes him not to run from this in fear, if it is truly what he wants.

And as reality washes away his own twisted interpretation, as Illya realises Napoleon’s wonder wasn’t fear, his surprise wasn’t horror, Illya can see it. Napoleon isn’t hiding anything, his smile true and his eyes bright with desire. Illya can’t deny, in the face of so much open light, that Napoleon wants this.

“Peril,” Napoleon says, light and happy, “Do you know me at all?”

Napoleon leans in and kisses Illya’s jaw, an electric shock in sensation and speed. Illya’s shoulders go slack with it, and suddenly it’s him who’s leaning in, twining his arms round Napoleon’s waist to get him closer— as close as possible.

Napoleon grins a victorious smile that shows all his teeth, and it isn’t even charming anymore, too broad and too exuberant on his face. It’s the most beautiful thing Illya has ever seen.

“Let’s be terrible men together, Peril,” Napoleon says, a laugh in his voice, “terrible for each other, a terror to the world. I can’t wait to be terrible with you.”

The grin slides off then, as Napoleon places his forehead to Illya’s, replaced with something softer, something fonder. It tethers Illya to him, makes any possibility of pulling away incomprehensible. _Caught and captured_ , Illya thinks mindlessly. _He has me._

“Let’s be terrible,” Napoleon says to him, the softness in his voice turning it into a request.

Illya wants to tell him how horrible an idea this is, that Napoleon’s lighthearted tone doesn’t hide that single truth. He wants to say that Napoleon could find so much better, without his legacy and the consequences it still brings. But he can’t, not while Napoleon’s eyes flicker with sudden insecurity as the silence stretches. So in the end Illya doesn’t say anything other than ,“Cowboy,” and it sounds like permission to everything Napoleon is asking for, because it is.

Napoleon kisses him breathless, and Illya has never felt so human as he feels himself be taken by the movement of lips against his. He feels fingers around his neck and up into his hair as Napoleon slots them together, and Illya doesn’t know whose heartbeat he feels on his tongue. For one single moment, his mind is erased with ecstasy, dizzy with a relief he hadn’t known he needed. When he pulls back to breathe, Illya sinks into the sensation of Napoleon’s power over him, how much he can pull him apart with a single kiss. It doesn’t scare him, and that thought makes him grab Napoleon by the jaw and continue their kiss, taking what he is offered so generously.

“Peril,” Napoleon rasps, minutes later, and motions to the door. His cheeks are flushed and breath comes rapid, as he their fingers together in a solid squeeze as he says, low, “I want you, _now_.”

Illya swallows as a heavy wave of fire pulses through him at the unabashed desire in Napoleon’s voice, the heat only worsening as Napoleon pulls them towards his bedroom. Illya lets himself be pushed and falls gladly, endlessly, as Napoleon continues to take him apart.

It is almost like a dance, Illya thinks, as Napoleon leads their bodies into exhaustion, ecstasy and delicious strain. Their movements timed to the beat of their racing hearts. Their twining touch a piece of art and the long night their private stage.

It is like a dance, Illya realises, as he learns the steps again, half familiar, half impossibly new. A touch between his shoulder blades reducing him to liquid. A smile over breakfast warming him for hours to come.

Or the arm slung around his waist during dark nights, banishing the nightmares for the first time since he came back home to his mother crying with bruises on her skin, leaving young Illya to wonder if this was what love looked like. Trying to imagine if he would be the one hurting, or the one in the corner, wishing to disappear.

He had believed that he would be like his father for years, for his lifetime, but Napoleon shows that he isn’t. The thought of causing Napoleon pain disappears in the reality of their days, weeks, months together. And Napoleon would never be like his father, so the mist of suffering that had followed his family through generations ends with Napoleon’s gentle touch.

It is like dancing, with stumbles and falls, injuries and passions flaring high.

Napoleon teaches him to trust in the gentleness of his hands, the soft skin he can hold between them. The laughing and moaning he can draw from using them the right ways. He knew he could please people, but it was never like this— light, slow, trust. He didn’t know he could.

Illya learns to catch Napoleon when he threatens to fall, circle around him to watch his back, always in tandem, always in sync. He learns to see the dark shadows beneath Napoleon’s lying eyes for what they are, snatch the whiskey from his hands after another rough mission, bear the yelling, the panic, the night-time fears, and treasure the stories, the trust, the memories falling from Napoleon’s lips. Illya gives and cherishes the apologies, and takes and keeps the promises, and adores long nights tangled together, working through the shambles others had left their minds in.

It isn’t easy. It’s hard work that aches at times, like the months of training a routine. But it is worth it, important, like a chance on the life he had wanted since being a little boy, swinging his legs to the beat of the dance.

But it isn’t ballet this time, no performances, pieces and traveling all over the world in a company of creation. That is a dream that was lost and one Illya doesn’t have to mourn anymore.

Because this — Napoleon’s love, laugh, touch and smile — is better.

They sweat their souls out, running, fighting, mastering each mission like a measure of song. Illya is still too good at breaking things, but they dance their darkness together, saving lives with the one hand while ending lives with the other.

Napoleon teaches him every day while draped over Illya’s chest, with his laugh trembling through skin and eyes bright in morning light. He teaches Illya that this is what he was made for. To have this, to keep this, to take care of what they have become. He will do anything to be the man Napoleon thinks him to be. To become the man Illya sees in the reflection of Napoleon’s piercing blue eyes. It almost seems impossible but—

Napoleon reaches forward, places a soft kiss on his lips, and Illya knows that he isn’t alone this time. He has someone to show him, someone to love him, even when he can’t manage it.

He has someone to help him become who he wants to be, because that is all what Napoleon wants him to be, while still loving the parts that Illya wishes he wasn’t.

It isn’t perfect, a dance never is, but Napoleon shows him that it doesn’t need to be for them to enjoy it. And Illya plans to cherish that gift until the end of his days.

**Epilogue**

“Well, gentlemen,” Waverly says sunnily, a cup of steaming tea in his hands. “I’m glad to see you all well. Kuryakin, thank you for your invaluable assistance abroad, we couldn’t have done it without you. Solo and Teller, I do not understand how you managed the capture the mark while being on sick-leave, but I’m smart enough to know that some questions are better not asked.”

Napoleon laughs beside him, and Illya can’t help but smile. Napoleon catches it and squeezes his hand carefully, under the table. Gaby huffs behind them and Illya turns to her to see her rolling her eyes.

Waverly doesn’t seem to notice the distraction. He places his tea cup on top of a precariously balanced stack of books and clasps his hands together. “I’ve asked you all here to propose a new chapter in this team’s story. While I’m grateful for the KGB’s and CIA’s generous willingness to loan you to our humble agency, I must say that times have changed and I’m simply not satisfied with that arrangement any longer.”

A sliver of dread starts to embed in Illya’s spine, but it’s quickly dispelled with a brush of Napoleon’s thumb. His easy affection makes Illya breathe in slow, and by the time he’s done Waverly’s already launched into his next sentence.

“As you know, the thief Lavender and Kuryakin so skillfully intercepted, was carrying the missing documents stolen from the compound. We have finally been able to decrypt them, and they’ve revealed something very interesting.” Waverly stands, and starts to hand out a file to each of them. The movement almost makes the tea cup topple over.

When he’s mostly sure there won’t be any tea related disasters, Illya quickly scans through the file in his hands. He’s confronted with a list, dozens of names, with their age and nationality along a label ‘active ghost, region y.” The region codes change with every active ghost.

Before Illya can say anything Gaby exclaims, “I knew it! There are more of them.”

“Many, many, more,” Waverly agrees, his nodding somberly. “48 of them in fact, and they’ve all overcrowded the most wanted lists in every agency on the planet. We want them all in custody as soon as possible.” Waverly leans forward, a small smile on his face once again, “And your team will run point. Which means, I can’t have one of our best men be suddenly be pulled from the team by a moody Russian or American bureaucrat, so I called in some favors.”

He places two other documents on the table. Napoleon takes them and gives one to Illya.

“It’s a contract,” Waverly says, “of your permanent transference to UNCLE custody. For you, Solo, that means your sentence is terminated. We do not regard our work as a punishment, so you’re free to walk away any time. For Kuryakin that means Moscow doesn’t have the right to order you back unless you volunteer, even if another war breaks out.”

Waverly chuckles to himself and continues, “It’s a 15 year contract, with of course possibilities to extend or for early retirement. You’ll have options to rise in the ranks too. It’s all the usual wish-wash, and if you want a raise down the line there are certain ways to earn it. You could start with ridding our fine planet of the ghost incursion.” Waverly turns to them and holds up his hands, expression expectant. “So, what do you say.”

Illya looks from Waverly to Napoleon, who’s smiling at the contract with a wondrous satisfaction that makes Illya’s heart pulse pleasantly. Napoleon meets his eyes and tilts his head in question. Illya only has to nod once.

Napoleon grins wider, turns back to Waverly, and says, “Where do we sign?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A second after Napoleon said that, the teacup fell into Waverly’s lap, leading into a hilarious endeavour of Waverly trying to dry his clothes with a random stack of papers he got from the floor while the team is crying from laughter. Just so you know.
> 
> AHHH we're done. Ahhhhhh. This fic wasn't supposed to be this long yall. I hope you enjoyed it anyway. I'm just too busy with yelling bc of getting this damn thing done to say anything of use. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this, and for commenting when I needed it most. I hope I can come back after finals with the ability to write short stuff, because I've been a bonafide part-time writer for too long and I need to learn how to not do that.


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